Curtain Call
by BaskervilleBeauty
Summary: COMPLETE. The sequel to my story The Great Hiatus. Holmes is convinced to take up international espionage again, but is haunted by his memories. Check out my profile for a Holmesian writer's challenge.
1. Strange Serendipity

_Author's Notes: Well, I'm back! I will be writing this story at the same time as my Harry Potter fanfiction, Compitalia, so I might not update as regularly as I did TGH. Thanks to Haley Macrae, mierin-lanfear, violavampire, QueenOfSpain and Ki for the last reviews on that. For those of you who did not read the story summary carefully enough, this is a sequel, so please go back and read the prequel, The Great Hiatus. While that story followed the events of Reichenbach Falls, this one concentrated on the circumstances surrounding His Last Bow. Notes for this chapter: as usual, historical personages are real, including the old professor. I will tell you who he is at the end. See if you can figure it out!_

**Chapter 1**

**Strange Serendipity**

As usual, it was Mycroft who suggested the necessity for action, though it took some convincing to engage Sherlock Holmes. Though most in the ministry were new men, there still remained some who remembered the embarrassing international boondoggle of 1891-4. All were initially opposed. The younger men were unwilling to believe that there was a threat at all. It was they who negotiated with Count Leo von Caprivi in 1890 for Zanzibar. It had only been necessary to cede Heligoland to gain dominance in Africa. The older men were perfectly aware that a naval fleet to rival that of Britain was equipped, but they believed that the amateur detective should be left to his chosen obscurity on the South Downs, where it was said he was engaged in bee-keeping.

Mycroft himself never considered such an option. The older man's life was so constructed on routine that it would never occur to him to change anything, never mind retire to an unremarkable life in the country, where he could pass his days in a haze of oblivion. Certain that his younger brother could not possibly object to an assignment of such grave importance to the future of England, Mycroft set about to use his impressive bulk, both actual and metaphorical, to ensure that something was done.

Since he was something of an institution in Whitehall and was both feared and respected for his nearly-supernatural powers of prediction, a compromise was reached in the hushed offices of the Foreign Office. Sherlock Holmes would be approached, but he was under no circumstances to become involved in direct dealings between nations. Instead, he would be grudgingly allowed to monitor certain personages, and report on their activities. It was left to his brother to deliver the news. A cab was hired to deliver Mycroft to Sussex, as he absolutely refused to take the train.

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His hand trembled slightly as he held the vial of tiny crystals over the blue flame. How angry he had been with her. Why? He thought desperately, for the hundredth time.

_Why? He thought desperately, for the hundredth time. What could have possessed him to do such a careless thing? It was something in her eyes, he remembered, something about the wild despair with which she confessed to him, that had made him do it. And now, he was stuck. Tied to her, for all eternity, though she had offered him a way out. _

_He shuddered. He, who was a confirmed bachelor – not just because he was a younger son and would not inherit a red cent. Sherringford could have it all, pompous country squire that he was; his Catholic character meant that he was ambivalent toward money and rarely accepted a fee that was greater than was strictly necessary to survive. It was not just because his work demanded that he remain impassive, cold, and shrewd, untouched by baser feelings than the noble drive to correct injustice. It was because no other woman had ever affected him so. Oh, there was That Woman, but she at least was a courtesan, an actress, a singer, a painted lady. She had been adept at misleading the hearts of men. _

_But She? She! She, who was guided by her scheming uncle, she who had languished in remote exile, she who had nothing to distinguish her! … Well, that wasn't true, exactly. But he was still trapped!_

_He nearly crushed the small vial of bromide as he added it to the crucible, hands trembling with violent indignation. The liquid spilled, extinguishing the small blue flame below. His experiment thus ruined, he went to light his pipe, but the tobacco would not fill the bowl, and it would not ignite. He growled angrily. There was nothing for it; he would go see his solicitors._

The experiment worked beautifully. The crystals had melted and separated, leaving a greenish deposit at the bottom of the vial. As her extinguished the burner, he registered knocking at the door. Removing his acid-stained apron and draping it over a chair, he moved to greet his visitor. Opening the door, he was surprised to see his entrance was entirely blocked by the extraordinary bulk of none other than his brother.

Mycroft Holmes grunted as a greeting and moved past his sibling into the small cottage, which at once took on the appearance of a doll's house, so dwarfed were the furnishings by the tall, broad, older man. The sofa groaned under his weight as he seated himself, sharp eyes glinting in the half-light of the front room.

"I have an assignment for you," Mycroft said, his voice hoarse with laboured breathing.

"I cannot help you," answered his brother, who had closed the door, but had remained standing.

"It will help the Empire," encouraged Mycroft.

"I think, dear brother, that the Empire is perfectly capable of helping itself, quite without my help," Sherlock answered dryly.

"Damn your arrogance, man!" blustered his brother. "Do you mean to tell me that I have come all the way to your god-forsaken cottage and you will not hear me out?"

"I did not say I would not hear you out," replied Holmes. "But I will not help you."

"We need you to keep an eye out for some Germans," began Mycroft, but was swiftly interrupted by his brother.

"I can assure you, I have not seen any pass my cottage lately. All my visitors are Englishmen, born and bred."

With a swiftness unexpected from a man of his corpulence, Mycroft stood and moved to the door. "You have not heard the last of this, Sherlock," he said. The door slammed behind him and the sudden sound of horses and wheels faded quickly.

_Tramping down the London streets, hardly seeing where he was going, he continued his furious interior monologue. Something about her eyes, that was it. She had ensnared his senses with those gypsy eyes. _

_The door to the solicitor's office was locked, quite inexplicably. With another growl, he turned on his heel, bound for Pall Mall, where he hoped to find his brother at the Diogenes Club. Entering by the dark oak door of that venerable establishment, he snapped at a young clerk behind the front desk._

_"Mycroft Holmes."_

_"He isn't here, sir," squeaked the frightened young man._

_"Why the devil not?" bellowed Holmes, his patience worn through by his elder siblings sudden unpredictability. _

_"It is Sunday, sir," answered the clerk, though his observation was unanswered. Holmes quickly exited the building, slamming the door behind him as he adjusted his hat. He swore loudly, scandalously, to his utmost inner satisfaction._

_Returning to his rooms at Baker Street, he flung himself despondently onto a sofa, sighed and reached with one long arm to a stack of unopened mail. Reading the first letter, his lips spread into a malicious smile. Leaping up, he sat at the writing table and furiously scribbled a note that he stuffed into an envelope. About to ring for the housekeeper to take it, he remembered that it was Sunday, and not only was Mrs Hudson visiting her sister in Epping, but there was no postman to deliver his message._

_His mood was thus truly foul when Watson returned from an afternoon of reminiscing with an old school friend. But' irritation had given him a kind of grim determination, so that as soon as Watson removed his hat, Holmes said, "Pack your bags, Watson, we're going to Norway."_

_"But why?" asked the bewildered doctor, his fingers frozen on the top button of his overcoat, and eyebrows hovering near his hairline. _

_"You recently expressed your admiration of Sigerson, did you not?" Holmes demanded._

_"Yes," Watson answered kindly, still not grasping the connection._

_"Well, he is Norwegian," stated Holmes, as though his answer was plain as day._

_The good doctor tried a different tack. "But what about your work Holmes? The cases you are following?"_

_"If they have lived without their aunties and dogs for this long, I daresay they can stand the abseince a little longer," Holmes said superciliously. "Very little could convince me to stay in London and solve a case now," he said. _

_"But what about my work?" asked his confused friend._

_"You can sell your practice, move back to Baker Street, and consult occasionally, if it makes you happy. I have already written to a potential buyer for your surgery," Holmes pointed to the envelope lying on the desk._

_"You have certainly arranged everything," said Watson. _

_But the Adventure of Black Peter proved too much of a temptation after all, and the trip to Norway was postponed._

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Foreign Secretary Sir Edward Grey was a lean man with a high forehead crowned by a sharp widow's peak. His mouth was extraordinarily thin, and his eyes deeply set, giving him the appearance of a rare bird. The analogy was not inappropriate, as it was well-known that he was an avid ornithologist. He sat with dignity in the same spot occupied just a few days ago by Mycroft and looked at his host with a silent appeal in his eyes.

"I was not trained in diplomacy, Mr Holmes, but I find that negotiation is one of my strengths. I am prepared to make concessions, but the criminals must be caught. Your brother believes them to be German."

"I have heard something to that effect," said Holmes non-commitally.

"So you will help us?" said the Foreign Secretary, a little desperately.

"I'm afraid not. My bee-keeping demands that I remain here at all times. I am writing a book on the subject."

"We could help in its publication," suggested Sir Edward.

Holmes smiled briefly, but shook his head. Standing up, he extended his hand to the politician. "I'm afraid I must attend to my bees now, Sir Edward. It has been a pleasure meeting with you, but I can do nothing for you."

The Foreign Secretary stood up and shook Holmes' hand. "Good afternoon, Mr Holmes." He bowed to him slightly as put on his hat and walked out of the cottage door.

_There were always lost aunties and runaway dogs. Or maybe it was the other way around. Watson would be the one to ask about that. In any case, work proved an effective consolation._

_He had tried to settle things with her, sending her a wedding band, visiting several times. He had even invited Watson along once. And every time, upon his return to London, he would throw himself ever deeper into the intricate webs of crime, resolving to forget. He usually ended up forgetting his meals, but never her._

_Watson had every right to be concerned. He had wasted away in those months, until even that eminent physician in Harley Street recommended a break. His friend deemed Sussex too close to London to truly be a distraction, and so the two of them were practically incarcerated on a lonely stretch of Cornwall seashore. There was crime there, too, of course, but She was not. He had allowed the criminal to go free. _

_And then there was the case that followed it immediately. Its solution lay in a logic puzzle so simple a child could have solved it. It was not worthy of Watson's little sketches. But he had been reminded of his old math tutor at Oxford, and this combined with his haunting feeling of rootlessness into a resolve to go visit the old man. _

_Though he had been retired since 1881, he was still something of a legend. He had gained considerable fame with a series of children's books that were imaginative, humorous, yet based on the very same principles of logic that he had taught his undergraduates. Though he steadfastly refused to admit authorship to adults, he would always oblige his adoring young readers. He genuinely liked children, to whom he was an eccentric but doting surrogate Uncle. His religious beliefs and employment, however, had long ago determined that he would never marry. Now he was in his mid-sixties and in failing health. That the formerly tall, slender, handsome, bohemian, sensitive professor had been reduced to a doddering old fool in his last years shook Holmes to the core. He resolved to return up to London immediately. Perhaps the strange serendipity that had brought him Beatrice Regina Bassano was not such an inconvenience after all._

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The Right Honourable Herbert Henry Asquith, Prime Minister, had alarmingly pale eyes below bushy eyebrows, and a strong chin. He spoke plainly.

"I am not exaggerating, Mr Holmes, when I say that this is a matter of national security. Things are going wrong, and we cannot understand why. There have been some arrests, but no conclusive evidence. The Foreign Office suspects the Germans, God knows why. I think it's the Irish. How could a foreigner be so effective in undermining our government, in subverting our plans?" The Prime Minister paused and looked at Holmes sternly. "I hear you have some plans of your own, and will not help us, Mr Holmes?"

Holmes smiled graciously. "Having you under my roof, Prime Minister, has convinced me that a change of plans might not be such an inconvenience after all."

_A/N: Well, did you get it? The aging professor is, of course, Lewis Carroll, AKA Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, a bit of a fictional character himself. And yes, I think Holmes went to Oxford. And I also think he's a Catholic, but I have already threatened to write a "trifling monograph" to that effect. _


	2. Many Happy Returns

**Chapter Two**

_Author's Notes: In case anyone was wondering or hadn't noticed, this sequel is a lot more self-indulgent and possibly OOC than TGH. Mierin-lanfear, I do apologise for my admittedly shallow chemistry knowledge. I barely passed high school chemistry – maybe you should write these things for me? L'Wren, yes, I am back, and it's wonderful that you are, too. Haley Macrae, like I said, I have my reasons for suspecting that Holmes is a Catholic, and one of these days I'll tell you what those are. Whether I'll work it into this fic, or if it will be a separate treatise, I don't know. Just trust me on this one, or ignore it altogether. It's not that important. Elsie Cubitt, your review was so wonderful! Thank you for all your kind words, and yes, Jeremy Brett is my inspiration. He is the Holmes of this sequel, much more than TGH. Curtain Call is all about "finding the cracks in the marble."_

"Do you mean to tell me," his wife said, as she poured a thin stream of milk into his teacup, "that the Prime Minister was here, under your roof?"

"That is exactly what I have just told you," Holmes replied, a little peevishly.

"And you did not refuse him, I trust?" she asked, leaning back with her own teacup perched delicately in her lap.

"I could not. I had already refused the Foreign Minister, it is true, but I could not refuse the leader of His Majesty's Government."

"What is it they wish you to do?"

"They suspect espionage, though no one is sure from what quarter. It is my unhappy task to bring the culprit to justice."

"Don't be melodramatic," she said. "You were dreadful to Mycroft. The poor man nearly had an apoplectic fit when he told me what you said to him. Your own brother, Holmes! You should be ashamed of yourself!" She had never called him by his Christian name. She had stopped calling Mr Holmes eventually, but though he could call her Beatrice, she would always call him Holmes.

He raised an eyebrow at her righteous indignation. "Taking this case will mean coming out of retirement, possibly for a significant length of time. It is most inconvenient, particularly now that I am finishing my book."

"Your manuscript is completed, you told me so yourself not two weeks ago. And besides," she added, "you have never before found a matter of international importance 'inconvenient'."

"The case has some interesting features, it is true," he granted.

"So, what will you do?" she asked.

"I was thinking of going up to London for a few days. I will return soon."

_When he had made up his mind to return to her, the journey from London seemed easy and pleasant. But he did not find her at the manor, and he stalked the neighbouring countryside, hoping to meet her as she walked. Finally, he spotted her silhouette from an outlook on the cliffs. She was walking slowly on the length of beach left exposed by the low tide, lifting the hem of her skirt as she danced to avoid stepping in the little tidal pools. As quickly as he could do it on the narrow, steep path, he clambered down, until he was standing on a little shelf that jutted out from the rocky cliff, his feet at her full height. But she had not heard him descend over the noise of the waves and the wind, nor did she see him behind her as she stood gazing out at the sea. He called her name, and startled, she whirled around to face him. Her foot, however, slipped on a rock, made slippery by the water, and she stumbled and fell. Torn between amusement and concern, he ran to help her. _

_"Are you alright?" he asked, as he helped her up._

_"No," was her curt reply. She stood, and after fixing him with a look of angry reproach, turned on her heel and began to climb the path up the side of the hill. He wet skirts clung to her ankles as she walked. Strands of her hair fell from underneath her hat and clung to her cheeks, red with feeling. She was much smaller in stature than he, but her fury and embarrassment propelled her to walk at a pace he had difficulty matching._

"_We must get you dry," he gasped as they reached the top of the cliff. "My cottage is close by."_

_She stopped in her tracks, crushing the grass under her boot-heels. "Your cottage?" she seethed. "After you left it for months, without a word to me? It is no longer your cottage." She crossed her arms, and tossed her head slightly to loosen the stray lock of her the wind blew in her face. "I have rented it someone else."_

_Holmes would not be defeated. "You are bluffing," he said. "I stopped in earlier, and my things are untouched." He had not, as it happened, stopped by the cottage, but he knew her better than to believe such a statement._

_She dropped her arms but did not reply. She just turned to walk away. He reached out for her arm, and shouted over a sudden gust of wind, "Where are you going?"_

_She shrugged off his grip, and without turning to look at him, said, "Home. My home. The Manor."_

_He let her walk a few paces before following her. Keeping back in this manner, he followed her to the red oak door. Though she had stumbled twice, he did not help her. Though she knew he was behind her, she did not look back. Holmes watched from the gate to the gravel courtyard as she walked inside the grey mansion. He lingered in the garden for some minutes, then walked up and knocked at the door himself. _

_Once admitted, he was divested of his coat and hat. He took the stairs up to the first floor two at a time. Abigail passed him, her arms filled with her mistress's soaked wardrobe._

_He knocked on her door softly and entered, one hand behind his back. She was dressed in dry clothes, a printed cotton housedress. Her black hair was still in disarray, and she was fixing it at her dressing-table, her hands deftly plucking pins here and there. The fabric stretched taut over her back, between her upraised arms. She saw him in the mirror, and his gaze met hers._

"_It's your fault if I look like a drowned rat," she said bitterly._

"_No worse than I did when you first found me, no doubt," he replied amiably. The remark was meant in jest, but she frowned and stopped fussing with her hair, letting her arms drop to her lap._

"_You fell out of the cart, and your face was covered in mud and dried blood," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "The soles of your boots had split. The cobbler didn't know what to do with them. Your clothes were torn and dirty. I had to cut you out of them, and then I saw the bruises on your body." Her voice trailed off, and she placed her hand on her cheek as a reflexive gesture of grief. "You spent days in delirium, and then, just as I thought the fever had broken, you overpowered the maid and screamed like a madman at me. We had to restrain you with ropes. And when you finally woke, and asked where you were, your cheeks were sunken, and your eyes gleamed wildly. It's a miracle you didn't die, really." She looked up at him, her anguished face reflected in the mirror._

_He extended his hand to her, and in it was single flower: a pink rose in full bloom. "I was outside, waiting," he said by way of comfort, "and I saw it and thought, 'Is there anything so beautiful as a rose?"_

_She turned around in her seat. "Don't try to make love to me," she said, but took the flower and put it carefully in a small vase on the table. "Go now. I don't want to see you any more today. You've done quite enough." And, as an answer to his look of feigned innocence, she added: "Trying to drown me first and then pilfering from my garden! I shall try very hard to forgive you by tomorrow." _

_But he could see that she had forgiven him already._

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He sat in a tiny cramped office in Scotland Yard behind a desk piled with folders that leaked loose sheets of paper. From the corridor, sounds of gruff men and hysterical women combined with an endless parade of footsteps. Beside him, a young constable named Japp, with a face like a hound, fussed with yet more reams of documents.

"Don't know where they've gone, sir! They were here last week, when I showed them to the Chief Inspector…"

"Surely you would have put them somewhere you could find them easily?" suggested Holmes languidly.

The younger man clapped his hand to his forehead, exclaiming, "Of course, Mr Holmes! I got them ready when they told me you were coming!" Extracting a stack of thick reddish folders bursting with paper, he set them down in front of Holmes with a satisfied look. "These are the files of the agents that have been arrested so far, and these," he reached for a pile of similarly thick green folders, "are the documents of the aborted operations. Some of the details have been blacked out, of course," the constable said solemnly, rocking back and forth on his feet, "to preserve national security."

"Indeed," replied Holmes, raising his eyebrow at the prolific results of a prosperous investigative bureaucracy. Lifting the edge of the topmost folder, he extracted a few sheets and began to read the carefully type-written pages. Japp, suddenly aware of his extraneous presence in the now-silent office, muttered something about tea, and exited.

The documents were written in thick prose, heavy with missing details and implied information. After reading the contents of several folders, Holmes could, with some certainty, piece together the situations that had led to the frustrated British secret service operations. Yet the person, or persons culpable were never apprehended. The sheer grey anonymity of the opposing force reminded Holmes of the careful subtlety of the mathematician-turned-criminal whom he had finally defeated at Reichenbach Falls.

Holmes gazed out of the grimy windows of the office to the London streets below. It seemed there were always enemies worth catching.

_A/N: Making love did not have the same connotations then as it does now. It meant making romantic advances, not sexual intercourse. And Japp (I love doing cross-over characters!) is the Inspector Japp of the Poirot novels. But surely, he had to start his career somewhere!_


	3. Train in Vain

**Chapter Three**

_Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay – I had writer's block, and technology troubles. Before anyone else asks, I have to apologise if I was unclear. As the story summary says, Holmes is plagued by his memories. The bits in plain text, therefore, are the present, and the bits in italic are memories. I intend to keep them fairly chronological, so that the first are the earliest and date from just after TGH. Thanks as always to my reviewers. Hermione Holmes, I guess I was inspired by an episode like The Eligible Bachelor here – more introspective and moody. Mierin-lanfear, that would be helpful. Elsie Cubitt, I don't know how you managed to make the review as long as the chapter! I have responded at length at the end of this chapter. Haley Macrae, that's more or less what I was going for. Lindsay, just you wait to see what I have planned for their domestic front! Masked Phantom, I wish you better luck with physics than I ever had myself._

Once the conductor had checked his ticket, Holmes pulled down the shades and dimmed the lamps. He was alone in the first-class compartment. In years past, he would likely have had Watson along with him. Sitting in the seat opposite, the Doctor's earnest face would express indignation at a story of crime, or amazement at Holmes' ingenious solution. In this particular case, the good doctor's presence would have been exceedingly useful. In his absence, Holmes had had to take on the role of the country physician himself, and though his years of friendship with Watson had allowed him many insights into the healing profession, it was no longer easy to disguise his native habits and mannerisms.

The rhythmic sound of the train's wheels on the rails and the darkness of the compartment soothed him. Holmes leaned his head against the tall seatback. "What a pity," Beatrice had said when they parted, "that we are not so young anymore. Being young, one can insinuate oneself nearly everywhere."

She was right, of course. The little woman was always right.

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_They had been talking together in the sitting-room at Manor Farm. A knock came at the door, and a disheveled young man, his cheeks red from running, entered. His callused hands were wringing his country cap, and his face had the look of a lost child. _

"_Sorry to disturb you, Ma'am," he gasped. "The police want you to come to the Seemans' cabin. There's been a murder."_

_Beatrice rose quickly, pulling on a shawl, and gestured for Holmes to follow. They walked briskly north-east of the estate, into a low-lying field in the middle of which stood a white-washed cottage. It would have been no different from any of the other cottages in the area, were it not for the half-dozen police constables currently swarming in and out of it. The young man led them to the door, and a swarthy middle-aged man in an overcoat came out to meet them. He nodded sternly at them in greeting._

"_My name is Inspector Williams," he said, and they nodded in return. "You are the landlady here?"_

"_My uncle owns the lands," she answered, "But as he is away on business, I will act as his representative."_

_Her answer seemed to satisfy him, and he stepped aside to allow them to enter the cottage. Holmes had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the doorframe. Inside, beside a dark oak bench, a man's body lay on the dirt floor. Blood seeped from his throat and a dark stain spread on his labourer's smock and into the dirt. Beatrice drew a sharp breath and covered her mouth. She turned her face away, leaning into Holmes' shoulder. _

_The country inspector shifted uncomfortably behind them. "I'm sorry you have to see this, Ma'am. It's no sight for a lady. We wondered if you knew the man." _

_Drawing a deep breath, Beatrice regained her composure. "That, as anyone will tell you, is Horace Seeman."_

"_Yes, ma'am, that he is," the inspector said patiently. "We were told that you visit your tenants often. Did you visit them today?"_

"_No," answered Beatrice, "and I fail to see why I was brought here to be questioned." Holmes, in the meantime, had left her side, and began very carefully to examine the walls of the cottage. He squinted in concentration as his long fingers caressed the wood surrounding the hearth._

"_We have already arrested Mrs Seeman in connection with the shooting, but we have not been able to make her talk. Our men are making the rounds of the neighbouring cottages, but we thought that since you are such a frequent visitor – "_

"_Shooting?" Beatrice interrupted. "You think he has been shot?"_

"_Yes," answered the inspector hesitantly, unsure of her line of questioning._

"_With what?" she demanded._

"_With a revolver, of course," answered the inspector, offended at the query._

"_I can find no bullet hole," Holmes said from across the room. "Have you found used cartridges, or, indeed, a revolver?"_

"_My men are in search of the weapon as we speak," stated the indignant Inspector Williams. Holmes snorted._

_Seeming to forget her previous fear, Beatrice strode forward until she straddled the corpse, and leant forward to examine the dead man's neck wound closer. "It's too small for a bullet hole," she said. "And if it were a bullet," she continued, "it would have exited the other side of his neck." She leaned to examine the opposite side. "Which it has not," she ended._

_The bewildered inspector crossed the room to her side. He peered at the cadaver's neck and spluttered, "She must have used some kind of cunning weapon hitherto unknown to the police force!" _

"_No doubt your men have already turned this place upside down?" Holmes asked bitterly._

_The inspector didn't reply. Instead, he continued to stare at the corpse. "A knife would have left long thin gashes," he said. "But this is such a thin, round point. What could leave such a mark?" he wondered aloud._

"_This," answered Holmes. He was holding a knitting needle, the tip of which was covered in blood and ashes. He had recovered it from the cold hearth._

"_Mrs Seeman killed her husband with a knitting needle?" the astonished inspector cried._

"_It appears so," Holmes answered smugly._

"_Nonsense," Beatrice contradicted from the dark oak bench where she had sat down. "You can't kill anyone with a knitting needle. It's physically impossible." Seeing the confused faces of the men who had thought that they had found the solution to their problem, she rolled her eyes. "Look around you, gentlemen. Do you see anything that Mrs Seeman could have knitted?" Looking around the bare, sparsely furnished room, the men were forced to agree that they did not. "And is there a pair for that needle?" Beatrice continued. After a quick search around the two-roomed cottage, the inspector admitted defeat. The needle in the fireplace was without a twin. Finally, Beatrice Holmes, nee Bassano, produced her most damning evidence. "What is that needle made out of, Holmes?" she asked. _

"_Wood," he answered immediately. _

"_And in your opinion, can a sliver of wood so thin pierce human flesh? Especially," she added, "when wielded by a woman against a resisting man?"_

_The answer was obvious, and the shamefaced inspector said dejectedly, "The aim certainly was remarkable. To hit his carotid artery at the first attempt…remarkable."_

_Beatrice smiled triumphantly. "I think we can conclude several things, Inspector. We can be certain that Mrs Seeman neither shot her husband nor stabbed him with a knitting needle. We can also be certain that the needle was placed in the hearth to distract you from the true murder weapon."_

"_And since Mrs Seeman herself does not knit," interjected Holmes, "she is less likely to be the killer."_

_Beatrice stood up and rearranged her shawl. "I wish you luck with your investigation, Inspector Williams. Good afternoon." She walked out of the cottage, careful not to touch the supine cadaver. Holmes silently handed the bloodied needle to the bewildered inspector, and followed her out._

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Retrieving his luggage from the porter, Holmes was surprised to find his wife waiting for him at the exit from Victoria Station.

"I thought you might report to Mycroft first," she said, greeting him with a wave of her hand, "but I simply could not wait that long to hear about your trip for myself. I have a cab waiting."

Though he was tempted to indulge her curiosity, he did make her wait until they reached Mycroft's rooms.

_A/N, continued: Elsie Cubitt, your review was very thought-provoking, and I thank you. I will respond in order of your comments. I am not sentimental, because that's Watson's job and he has that covered. ;-) I like Baring-Gould, but I use SherlockPeoria's Just the Facts database for my chronologies, which allows me to choose between the opinions of different expert Sherlockians, including his. I'm not sure that Holmes is a great example of the human condition. Maybe in a Shakesperean tragic-disconnect sort of way… I like your idea about Holmes maturing throughout the Canon. That appeals to my sense that he is quite human, just with an extraordinary self-control, quite beyond that of any twentieth- or twenty-first-century person. I also like your interpretation of Beatrice's name. I generally like it when readers find something I didn't necessarily intend. I'm afraid to say that her name is a very simple pun and not a reference to Dante. (Though no one has yet deciphered it – c'mon, people!) But I'm glad that your theory works just as well, if not better. I love the JB quote! But then again, he was one to talk, having the emotional maturity of a 12-year-old at best! Is Beatrice a mixture of Holmes, Watson and Mrs Hudson? I think she asks more questions. (It has always bothered me that Mrs Hudson didn't throw a fit when she saw the VR bullet-holes in her rented rooms! Patriotism or no patriotism, his damage deposit is gone forever!) Your characterisation of JB is remarkable, and hits exactly those points I love about the show; but as I said to Hermione Holmes above, I meant that I was inspired by the later shows, where you get the occasional insight into Holmes' head. As for my dialogue, I have taken your comment to heart. I hope this chapter is more along the lines of what you wanted to see. Does Holmes complete Beatrice? An interesting question: Stay tuned. As for the Catholicism question, I have decided that it will be important to the plot after all, so I will post my hypothesis soon._


	4. Ashes of His Youth

**Chapter 4**

**Ashes of His Youth**

_Author's Notes: Thank you Masked Phantom, and welcome to my other fic as well. Elsie Cubitt, nope, that's not the pun, sorry. Fflewddur Fflamm, you got it! (Well, half of it. Her middle name enters in here as well…) Mierin-lanfear, glad you think its simple. Its a pain to write, mainly because I'm writing two chapters in one, essentially. Hermione Holmes, no, you're not misreading it. That's the way those two are. I just can't picture them being all lovey-dovey togetherness. But they have unspoken bonds, many of which have yet to be revealed. Lindsay, can you guess where the spy bit comes from? The postcard mentioned is an actual historic postcard that was acquired by an American couple on their return visit to their Irish homeland in 1908. You can find it on the web under its title. The "fashionable" vice is, of course, homosexuality, and I am referring to the Oscar Wilde trial of 1895. Younghusband invaded Tibet in 1904. He followed Sherlock's route to Lhasa. ;-) The chapter title is taken from Shakespeare's sonnet 72. _

The knock at the dark mahogany door was answered after several agonising moments. Mycroft Holmes was now approaching seventy, and one was never sure if he would answer the door. His solitary, sedentary lifestyle meant that few would notice if he was missing. His younger brother suspected that Mycroft used this to his advantage. The anonymity allowed to a harmless old man likely meant that important people were more likely to commit indiscretions in his presence; indiscretions that would haunt them, for although his body appeared frail, his mind certainly was not.

Mycroft Holmes did appear on the other side of the door at last. He was just as corpulent as ever, but age and gravity had pulled his weight downwards, so that the cheeks that had been full before were now heavy jowls. He had the appearance of an angry bulldog, with his eyes squinting in suspicion, and his chin set in defiance. When he identified his visitors, however, his facial expression softened, and he stood aside to allow Sherlock and Beatrice to enter.

Beatrice perched sideways on a narrow bench; her fashionable skirt did not allow her further movement. Sherlock flipped his coat-tails and sat on the sofa. Mycroft limped towards a leather armchair and with a great sigh, sank into it.

"How did you fare in Ireland, brother?" he asked.

"I contrived to disguise myself as a country doctor," Holmes began. "I had the addresses of the suspects arrested by Scotland Yard in the last year, and I tracked them to their native villages. I made some inquiries, but met with little success. However, all the suspects lived in the county of Cork."

"Most accessible to England," commented Beatrice.

"Indeed," Holmes concurred. "But it is impossible that a rebellion would start there."

"Why?" inquired Mycroft, and sat back to hear the answer.

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"_Look," she said later, as they stood in the dark cellar kitchen of Manor Farm. "The needle cannot pierce flesh." With a swift stroke of sudden and shocking violence, she brought down the point of a knitting needle sacrificed by Abigail for the occasion into a cut of pork being prepared for dinner. The force of the impact bent the needled for a few moments, until it suddenly splintered. The lower half glanced off the meat and fell to the tile floor. The upper half remained in Beatrice's hand, but even after a few desperate stabs, the broken needle left only tiny indentations in the meat. _

_Holmes bent down and examined the violated animal flesh through his magnifying glass. Sure enough, a few slivers had pierced the surface, but the damage was not fatal in any sense. Satisfied, he put down the glass on the wooden cutting board. _

"_We will have to look elsewhere for our weapon," he concluded._

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"The Irish," Holmes concluded, "are not capable of starting their own rebellion. There are a few rebel intellectuals, sure enough, but the leadership lacks the resources necessary for an effective uprising."

"But you think there will be an uprising?" clarified Mycroft.

"Wiser and more politically astute men than I have predicted it with certainty," shrugged Holmes, fingering his cigarette case.

"Yes, but those are the same men who were sure that the Russians were in Tibet, despite your reports to the contrary," objected Beatrice.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and shook his head. "The Younghusband expedition was sheer tomfoolery," he sighed. "But the whole business was nearly ten years ago, and there are new men in power. They might be more open to your conclusions."

"But is that enough reason for Holmes to endanger himself again? After all, just because Scotland Yard's idea of a spy is a beautiful young woman carrying large amounts of foreign currency in her purse, does not mean that other nations are so naïve." Agitated, Beatrice stood up and began pacing.

"Of course you are correct, my dear," Mycroft attempted to soothe her. "But there are some very intelligent men on our side. Take James Bryce, for example. He is an Irishman, but he is ambassador to America now."

At this, Holmes began to search through the pockets of his discarded overcoat, rifling madly until he produced a stack of postcards. He extended the topmost one to his sibling, and Beatrice came over to look over Mycroft's shoulder at the image. At a sunset shore, a maiden bedecked with clover sat with her harp. A hound lay at her feet, while two flags, including the Union Jack lay beside it. An eagle carrying the American shield flew over the scene, and a caption read, "United by our love of Erin."

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked his brother.

"I think you will have to go to America," answered Mycroft at length, peering at the image. "They would certainly be capable of providing the resources you spoke of."

Holmes nodded. "Will you arrange a meeting with the ambassador for me?" he asked.

Mycroft grimaced. "Whitelaw Reid is a Republican, the worst kind of American. But I will arrange something."

"What a pity we are not younger," Beatrice repeated again. "It would have been so useful to have some young man well-placed in the ministry to keep us informed of any developments. Anything to help! Even if I could attend a house party or two where such things might be discussed!"

Ignoring the dangerous look from his junior sibling, Mycroft intoned, "That can be arranged."

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_In the end, the answer was clear. The killer had as much as confessed to Holmes while attending one of Beatrice's dinner parties. He was a tutor at Stackhurst's academy, but he had been to South America, on an expedition through the Amazonian jungle. It was this fact that put Holmes in mind of the methods of Lesseps the poisoner, whom he had apprehended in 1889. Using a poisoned dart, the otherwise mild-mannered tutor had killed Seeman from a distance. He had been clever enough to remove the offending dart, and to leave an alternate weapon for the police to find, hoping that the poor farmer's wife would be implicated. The motive for the murder was unspeakable, but then popular in London society. Inspector Williams was notified, and the tutor duly charged with murder and gross indecency. The incident shocked the community and Stackhurst refused to speak to Holmes for some months. Genius, Holmes reasoned, was bound to be a pariah sometimes. Justice was simply more important than good company._

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"Good luck in your investigation, brother," Mycroft said as he saw the couple to the door. "I shall wire with the particulars of your assignment, Beatrice." She blushed a little as Sherlock's elder sibling kissed her hand in parting with an air of careful, old-fashioned courtesy.

"Anything else, Mycroft?" inquired Holmes, tapping his foot impatiently.

"May the wind be at your back," smirked Mycroft. Beatrice collapsed in a fit of giggles entirely incongruous of a woman of her years, but was immediately silenced into shamefaced repentance by a single quirk of Holmes' left eyebrow.


	5. Friends in Far Places

**Chapter 5**

_Author's Notes: Thank you Elsie Cubitt (you got it!), Masked Phantom, and Hermione Holmes. I am SO sorry for the delay in updating. It's been almost a month, and I've been busy, then on holiday, then blocked. I just saw a brilliant play set in Victorian London, called Dear Boss, and it has inspired me somewhat. Prepare yourselves for some shocking developments and plenty of angst. As well, I WILL post that long-awaited monograph soon._

The face of London was changing. Automobiles now encroached on the streets that formerly teemed only with horse-drawn carriages. Electrical lights illuminated the nighttime darkness instead of flickering gas lamps. The fogs weren't as heavy, and the Georgian townhouses of Pall Mall showed more of their intended whiteness as Beatrice walked along. What had not changed, however, was the population that shared these streets. The men, in spats, tails and top hats, dwarfed her slight figure on the sidewalks. It being lunch hour, many of the civil servants, their pale faces flushed with the outside air, were hurrying to the park or to the numerous cafes and bistros to eat their midday repast. Beatrice was headed in the opposite direction, to the dark, cramped offices of her brother-in-law.

Barely managing the stairs in her long, narrow skirt, she ducked breathless into the room, adjusting her gloves and hat. Mycroft made an awkward attempt to rise in greeting from his leather chair, but abandoned the effort as soon as she had acknowledged his courtesy. With a wave of his hand, so similar to his younger sibling, he gestured her to sit across from his desk.

"I assume you have informed my brother of your intentions to aid us in this case?" he asked Beatrice archly, fixing her with a look worthy of a public school headmaster.

"I am glad you did not inquire if I asked his permission," Beatrice laughed with a toss of her head. "Holmes has ears, and he heard what I said to you the last time we met."

"But he does not know you are here?" Mycroft pressed.

"No," Beatrice admitted. "How can he? He is on a ship bound for America, and who can tell how long it will be before we hear from him?"

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The ship, one of the Cunard line, was equipped with every luxury, but not every luxury was intended for every passenger. As Sherlock Holmes arose from the deck chair on which he had been trying vainly to dispel the endless monotony of an Atlantic passage, he made his way to the edge of the deck and looked down upon the steerage deck. Huddled upon it were humans of every colour, swathed in standard-issue ship's grey wool blankets. There were women with babes in arms, and men upon whose faces was imprinted a lifetime of suffering. They had come up for air, certainly, but there was another reason. Today was the day the ship was scheduled to dock in New York City. An air of anticipation hung over the ship as porters prepared for the landing, and passengers peered eagerly into the grey mist to catch a glimpse of the fabled metropolis. On the steerage deck, the cares on the faces seemed to be assuaged by hope, which played cruelly across their features, only to be replaced by familiar worry.

Holmes turned his head toward the prow of the ship, and his keen eyes sighted something looming on the horizon. He was not alone, for soon a crowd had gathered, and it was only his superior height that allowed him to see beyond as vague outlines clarified into recognizable shapes. The ship's great engines slowed to a gentle hum and the vessel glided through the choppy dark waters toward port. As the bronze colossus in the harbor neared, Holmes turned his gaze back toward steerage. The passengers were standing, and it was to them, the huddled, wretched, masses that the great lady seemed to beckon hope and redemption. To him, she seemed to warn of vigilance against those who would snuff out the light of justice.

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Mycroft frowned and his mouth thinned into a line of displeasure.

"It will not do," he said, "for me to put my brother's wife in danger."

"No it will not," Beatrice agreed readily. "That is why you will do everything in your power to ensure my safety." She leaned forward and gave Mycroft a glimpse of that winning smile that erased the years from her visage. "It is only what your duty demands."

Mycroft winced. "Very well," he said and pressed a small button on the corner of his desk. The button was connected to a heavy black cord, which transmitted a buzzing noise to a far room, barely audible through the walls. The sound summoned a young man, who entered the room noiselessly and stood expectantly, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mycroft nodded toward him and said, "Beatrice, this is Sherrinford." Beatrice, who had turned in her seat to look at the visitor, whipped back around to Mycroft, her face the very picture of shock. "My elder brother's daughter's son," Mycroft added by way of explanation.

Beatrice looked at the young man again. To be sure, there was a resemblance. He had the same shoulders and hawkish features, though softened somewhat by a youthful plumpness. He wore his hair long, as was then the custom, and it framed his high forehead, though he lacked the sharp widow's peak that characterized the faces of his two great-uncles. All in all, he reminded her very much of another young man, now some years his junior, though of an earlier generation.

"Sherrinford, this Beatrice Holmes. She is the wife of my younger brother, Sherlock."

The young man stepped forward and clasped Beatrice's outstretched hand. "How old are you?" she asked.

"Five and twenty," he answered plainly.

"His grandfather Sherrinford was seven years my senior," Mycroft explained, "and this is the issue of his eldest daughter. It was thought that he would make a good career in the Ministry, and so I have kept him close to me. It is his job to meet people and then report to me."

"How convenient," Beatrice remarked in a near-whisper, for she was still studying the young man's features intently.

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As a mere visitor to the republic, Holmes was not privy to the pleasures of the Immigration Hall on Ellis Island. Instead, he was ushered into an office and given papers to protect his anonymity. Mycroft had not been remiss in arranging a meeting with the American ambassador, and after some discussion, it was arranged that Holmes should receive diplomatic immunity as long as he was guaranteed by the English embassy in Washington. The friend of a friend, it seemed, was also a friend; or perhaps it might be more appropriate to say, an enemy of an enemy was a friend. The situation was rather ambiguous still.

Stepping outside, Holmes braced himself in the salty air. He had his documents, and money, but no destination other than a vague direction to the nation's capital. It was Holmes' experience that fate always intervened at that liminal moment just before an action has been decided. Today was no exception, for as Holmes exhaled into the misty spring air of New York, he was suddenly greeted by a familiar face.

"Might I point you in the direction of the train station, Mr Holmes?" a smiling man with eager blue eyes said quietly at his elbow. The man in question tipped his hat slightly, and said, "The name is Murdoch. Your wife wrote to me, and suggested I meet you here."

Holmes was flooded with the memory of that summer day in the south of France, and the recently bereaved young constable they had met in the cloister of the monastery. He remembered the satisfied smile that had played on Beatrice's lips as he conversed with Murdoch about criminology, and imagined a similar smile on her lips as she wrote a letter to far-off Canada. No matter how far away he was, it seemed, he had friends; Even if the friends were corresponding with his wife without his knowledge.

_A/N: Following Baring-Gould's chronology, Holmes was born in 1854. Mycroft was then born in 1847, and an elder brother (called Sherrinford after the early name for Holmes) I have made also be seven years older, thus born in 1840. His daughter, if she was born circa 1865, would have given birth to Sherrinford the Second in 1887. We therefore avoid answering the pesky question of who inherits the Holmes estates after Sherrinford the First, and do answer the question of why two men whose family backgrounds obviously could afford excellent education had to work for a living. Good old primogeniture._


	6. Advice

Chapter 6

Author's Notes: You're all still reading! Thanks to mierin-lanfear, hermione Holmes, Haley Macrae, Elsie Cubitt, and Masked Phantom.

"I was surprised to hear from your wife," confessed Murdoch as he and Holmes walked from the docks into the teeming heart of Manhattan. "To tell the truth, I have no idea how she managed to track me at all. It has been nearly twenty years since we first met."

"Yet you remembered her," pointed out Holmes with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Murdoch smiled, the skin around his blue eyes crinkling. "It was not so much your wife that made an impression on me, Mr Holmes, but the conversation I had with you. I had just lost my fiancee, and it seemed that all the light in the universe had been snuffed out. My priest suggested that I undertake a pilgrimage, a spiritual quest of sorts. Little did I know that I would meet the man who is a hero to all of us in the profession."

Making a little noise in the back of his throat, Holmes demurred, uncomfortable with the sentiment being offered to him by the younger man. Murdoch continued to speak, "I tell you this earnestly Mr Holmes. I had lost hope, and in those few moments of conversation, my prior passion for work was re-ignited. Though I did not then know with whom I was speaking, I was again inspired to hunt down criminals of all sorts. I flatter myself that I have been successful."

"You have the air of a successful man. While your forehead is lined with the traces of concern, you do not have the weary air of one troubled by failure," observed Holmes.

"I have been lucky," admitted Murdoch. "My efforts have been recognised and my career has proceeded smoothly." Sending Holmes a meaningful smile, he concluded proudly, "I have also married an exceedingly intelligent woman. She is a coroner, and helps me tremendously in my work."

"Beatrice is not quite so involved in the practical side of my investigations," Holmes answered.

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"Sherrinford is a very popular young man among our cabinet ministers," Mycroft informed Beatrice with more than a trace of pride in his voice.

Meatrice, who had at last collected herself, replied warmly, "That is indeed convenient for what I have planned. You see, while my husband is away tracking clues in America, I would very much like to follow the political situation here at home."

"You would like me to use my contacts and report to you," Sherrinford rephrased concisely.

Beatrice smiled, "Something like that. I expect I will hear anything official in the papers, and Mycroft can interpret anything I do not quite understand. I need you to tell me the gossip, the rumours, and petty politics."

Sherrinford frowned. "It seems a tedious job. I don't have the temperament of a chambermaid."

Beatrice's smile fell and she drew herself up. "Your temperament is irrelevant. But, if you do not wish to observe such minor details, you will arrange it so that I may. I must be invited to every social function at which more than one cabinet minister is present."

Sherrinford shifted his weight from one foot to another and back again. "It will be difficult. Do you prefer ministers of the interior or ones that deal with international matters?"

Beatrice considered for a moment and said thoughtfully, "Both might be important." Raising her head, she answered confidently, "Both."

After the young man had taken his leave, Beatrice turned to Mycroft. He was sitting back in his chair, his fingers steepled in the manner of his younger sibling, and an inscrutable expression on his face. "No doubt he is popular because he is as thick as they are?" she asked archly. Mycroft only laughed.

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"What reason did my wife give for writing you?" Holmes asked finally, as he and Murdoch dodged a speeding tram.

"She asked me whether I might be able to give you some information on the Irish question in America," Murdoch answered.

"And can you?"

"The situation in America is much different than in Canada," Murdoch said. "I know there is support for a republic here, spread among all different classes. The people who have come to America, are after all, those most disaffected by English rule."

"Is there much violence?" inquired Holmes.

Murdoch shook his head. "Not much in the older cities. In Boston they are too well-settled, and it has been a generation since there were riots in New York. Perhaps in Chicago… In Toronto, we have had no end of trouble with smuggling from the cities on the lakes. You might try there."

Holmes nodded. "I will ask the ambassador also, but I thank you for your help."

"So after you meet with the ambassador in Washington, you will go on to Chicago?" surmised Murdoch.

"The situation will unfold itself in the fullness of time," Holmes remarked cryptically. He parted from Murdoch at the station and boarded a train to Washington. As the familiar sounds filled the compartment, Holmes allowed himself to sleep.

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_A heavy fog swirled up from the bay and licked at the windows of Manor Farm. It was one of the few times that year that Holmes could take himself away from London to spend time at his cottage, and now the mist was so thick that he could not even have found the path that led to it. The ancient house, already dark, seemed weighted down with anticipation. Across the dimness of the room, Holmes could see Beatrice, curled over some needlework. Her uncle was unwell, and she had as many responsibilities in tending after him as he had in London solving crime. He saw her so little that every moment but this one was pregnant, filled to wholeness with speech and action, an eager intercourse of minds. They had exhausted themselves this time, though, and he spent this climatic confinement in silence. He would not see her again until the year changed to 1897._

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James Bryce, British ambassador to the United States of America, was remarkably energetic for a man of 74 years of age. He had large, sympathetic eyes under thick, bushy eyebrows and a heavy beard that curled around his mouth. Though he looked more like an eminent Harley Street surgeon, he was in reality a lawyer and a politician, a respected historian, and an avid alpinist. Sitting across from him at the embassy in Washington, Holmes noticed at once his strong hands and athletic bearing, even though they were now somewhat eclipsed by his advanced age.

"Of course you have read my book on the institutions of this country," Bryce was saying as he gestured to an impressively laden bookshelf behind him. "It is somewhat out-of-date now, but I believe the general sentiment to be unchanged since I published The American Commonwealth in 1888."

"I am familiar with the tome, yes," Holmes nodded.

"This country, with its proud history of democracy and significant Irish population, cannot fail to support the Republican quest for Home Rule," Bryce concluded. "It will happen, sooner or later, and I pray that it will happen with as little bloodshed as possible."

"Indeed," Holmes concurred. "Although it is not my mission to apprehend those who will perpetrate such bloodshed, I believe there must be a force acting to incite similar efforts. That force must be stopped."

"You will find there are many who support the Irish cause," Bryce objected. "And all have their own reasons."

"I am of the opinion that men will not do that which does not bring them personal gain. There would be much to gain here for one that was willing enough," Holmes mused.

The wizened ambassador shook his head. "You will not go far in matters of nationalism with such a narrow focus," he said. "You will certainly get no further than the milling ranks of the ragged peasants who desire revolution." He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming. "No, to reach the ones at the top, you must not think like a criminal, Mr Holmes. You must begin to think like a diplomat."


	7. Children of Eve

**Chapter 7**

_Author's Notes: I bet you all thought I was dead. I am not, but my creativity seems to be. This chapter had me stumped; I can't tell you how many times I wished we could just move on to the next bit! Thank you to my reviewers, Silverthreads, Elsie Cubitt, Haley Macrae, and Hermione Holmes (I can't believe I've been compared to Toni Morrison! Thank you so much!). As per the last chapter, by the way, James Bryce was a real person. However, I don't actually have any idea how long it would take to get from Washington to Chicago by train in 1911._

He caught a glimpse of himself in the glass windowpane of the rag shop he had just exited. Gone was the groomed, urbane Englishman known as Sherlock Holmes; in his place was a bearded old man, whose face and clothes displayed all the misery of his existence. The beard had made his eyes appear fierce. He fancied that he resembled Uncle Sam.

Painful though it had been to his usually-scrupulous personal habits, the disguise carried down to his fingertips. Holmes touched his jacket with his greasy, blackened fingernails. The jacket, along with the rest of his clothes, had been obtained from second-hand sources all over Washington, from money he had made after pawning his own clothes. This had been a source of additional consternation; without his usual attire, he could not take on a respectable appearance if necessary. On the other hand, the thieves and scoundrels he expected to meet with would think nothing of going through his belongings. To explain his rags and tatters when he had a suitcase full of bespoke tailoring would no doubt destroy all his efforts at deception.

Thus satisfied with his disguise, Holmes made his way to the train station in the centre of town. He arrived on the platform, his shoes spattered with mud from the streets and sat on his suitcase by the wall, waiting for the train. There were many like him, dirty men of varying ages and descriptions, lined up against the wall. Although they weren't loitering, their disaffected stances suggested otherwise. There was only one who was occupied with something, and it was beside him that Holmes seated himself. The man, although in attire no different than the rest, was reading a newspaper. While he read, he chewed on tobacco, and paused to spit on the ground as he turned the pages.

Holmes considered his target carefully. The tobacco was cheap, judging from its smell. The paper was not a larger, respectable publication, but one that enjoyed some popularity amongst the working classes. The man's hands showed sings of work, but his dress did not. Although he had money to spare for newspapers, he clearly had not recently earned it through manual labour. Literate, and without any obvious occupation, he was just the sort of liminal person Holmes expected. As the engine chugged up to the platform, and all the men hoisted themselves into the third-class carriages, Holmes followed his prey closely. Careful to never be too far from his luggage, he sat down across from his neighbour. While the cabin was filling up, he read the headlines on the pages facing him, and waited. Soon, his opportunity would come, and he had many hours to spare.

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Beatrice locked the cottage door behind her and sank into the sofa beside the cold, empty stove in the centre of the room. Pulling out the pins from her hat, she flung it down beside her and let out a sigh of frustration. Eyes closed, leaning her head back against the cushions, she breathed in the stale smell of tobacco. The scent seemed to give her strength and she opened her eyes and lifted her head.

She had come here seeking solitude; but in truth, she was more alone than ever. Her uncle, Sir Edgar, had died some years earlier, and Manor Farm was now emptier and darker than ever before. He was the last link with the past, to her parents, and her life before the Italian exile. Holmes was – well, she didn't really know where he was. Somewhere in the wilds of America, she supposed, hunting criminals and revolutionaries. Mycroft, having accommodated her requests for an occupation, had left her at the mercy of Sherringford. The latter preferred office drudgery to drawing-room politics, and although he grudgingly arranged her presence at all the Cabinet house-parties, he himself sullenly skulked in corners.

It was from such a house party that she had just returned. It was all the usual ministers, puffed up in their tuxedoes and tweeds, vapid wives on their arms. She was vividly reminded of the Anglobeceri in Florence, whose lives continued in a hazy whirlwind of cigarettes and champagne, oblivious to the world beyond their immaculately groomed croquet lawns. _And these_, she thought bitterly to her self, _were the men who were supposed to protect England from the dark clouds on its horizon?_

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Holmes did not have to wait long. As the train shuddered into motion, his travelling companion folded up his newspaper and tucked it under his arm. Looking around him, his eyes at last came to rest on Holmes. He nodded, slightly, more with a movement of his eyebrows than his head; Holmes echoed the gesture. Removing the paper, he offered it to Holmes.

Taking the proffered paper, Holmes smiled in gratitude and said, "Thank you." The words came out in a slight lilt. Much to Holmes' satisfaction, his little aural ploy worked; the accent registered and caught the other man's attention.

Leaning back with his body, the man nodded at the paper with his chin. "More strikes yesterday. The bosses don't know what to do."

Smiling inwardly, Holmes replied, "They don't know the power of the men who work for them. But who but a strong man could slave in those factories?"

The other man nodded and looked out the window. Looking back, he quirked his eyebrow up at Holmes. "You Irish?" he asked.

"Born in County Cork," Holmes lied, not taking his eyes off the headlines.

The man leaned forward suddenly. "My folks were from Mitchelstown," he shared.

"My sister's family is settled there," answered Holmes coolly.

"How come you left?" inquired the younger man, who under close inspection appeared to be no more than thirty.

"Couldn't stand the bloody English," Holmes replied, injecting venom into his Irish accent. "Killed the priest, they did. Old man never saw it coming. We tried to run 'em out o'town after that, but they had too many men. I had to leave, or else they'd have come for me."

His companion let out a low whistle of amazement and extended his hand to Holmes. "Name's James. Ollie James." Returning the handshake, Holmes introduced himself as George Altamont. "Pleasure, Mr Altamont. Say, would you mind it if I introduced you to some friends of mine in Chicago? They're real keen on the Irish cause, and your story s just what they want to hear!"

"If you think they will want to hear an old man's stories," Holmes said. "I don't know many people in Chicago. I'm just going to check up on my sister's boy, but who knows how I'm going to find the lad?"

"You don't have anywhere to stay?" James asked, amazed. "Well, that's just great! You can come stay with me! The wife and kids won't mind, they're used to visitors!"

_Are they, indeed?_ thought Holmes as he accepted the invitation. He thought so again, as James ushered him toward his dwelling in Chicago. They had talked for most of the day, and Holmes shared Altamont's story, compiling it from the files he had read in Japp's office of arrested Irish rebels, and adding details from his own experience with London's criminals. James was by now utterly convinced that Altamont was a true Irish patriot, and was determined to share him with his compatriots. Through the conversation, Holmes had gleaned that James belonged to some loose association of petty criminals, bound together by their allegiance to the Irish cause. He had been in Washington on a job, and was returning home successful.

The house where James lived, if it could be called that, was a ramshackle terraced house in what was obviously a slum. Though it was midday, and the sun shone brightly, little of it fell to the streets between the tenements. As they stepped inside, darkness covered them, and Holmes was temporarily disoriented. No light filtered through to the staircase, so tightly packed was this dwelling; but the foetid smell that assaulted his senses suggested its inhabitants with terrifying clarity. Over the lingering essence of linoleum and turpentine was the smell of human sweat, sickness and decay. It was an airless, hopeless place, the likes of which London had tried to eradicate thirty years earlier. Such cesspools of humanity, it seemed, existed everywhere, and bred the miasma of revolution.

Following the sound of James' footsteps, Holmes stumbled onto a landing. Fumbling with the lock, James swung the door to his rooms, and the light hit Holmes, making his eyes sting. He stepped inside, though, in truth, there was little room. The walls were hung with the baskets, linens, utensils and furniture for which the floor no longer had space. The smell of meals cooked long ago hung in the air. Two small urchins rushed past Holmes and towards James, who indulgently patted their heads, laughing that they were his youngest. Holmes followed his gaze to their mother, who stood up from her chair by the fire. He had to stop himself from coming to her aid, so shaky were her movements. Her eyes were sunken, and her hair hung in sad strings around her face. She clutched her belly – she was with child again.

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_It was hard to ignore the fear in her eyes. She clutched her belly, though it was not yet swollen. "I did not expect this," she said, her tone pleading with him to understand and forgive. "Not at my age – not at your age!"_

_Seeing her like this, knowing it was his child in her womb, he could not explain to her that it was a logical consequence. He sat down beside Beatrice. Placing his hand over top of hers, he fixed her eyes with his. Her body seemed to relax with the gesture. "You are the same age as was my mother when she bore me," he said, and it was true. Though she had been a young bride, she had given birth to three sons in fourteen years, and Holmes had been her last, born when she was nearly thirty-five. _

_Beatrice buried her head in his shoulder and let out a deep sigh. "This is what comes," she said, "of being the children of Eve."_

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As Holmes settled down for the night in a corner of the tiny room James shared with his wife and five children, he determined to get lodgings of his own. No matter how noble the cause, he reflected, he was too old for such sacrifices.

_A/N: Please don't beat me!_


	8. Eye on the Prize

**Chapter Eight**

_Author's Notes: Thanks Elsie Cubitt, Silverthreads, J.A. Lowell, mierin-lanfear, Hermione Holmes, and HouAreYouToday. I'm glad I didn't get any flames for that last bit, and I can't tell you how rewarding it is that you guys are getting my subtle foreshadowing! No scary and unexpected plot twists in this chapter. That's not until next chapter, which I have half-written, so hopefully it won't take as long to update next time... ;-)_

A light flared briefly in the think black night, illuminating for a moment the faces of two men, identical in stature. Their faces were huddled close together around a single match, both endeavoring to light their cigarettes. One of the men cursed as the flame was snuffed out by a gust of wind, but touched the end of his unlucky cigarette to the glowing amber end of that of his companion. There was a short silence while the burning stubs floated up and down in the darkness, lost occasionally in exhalations of smoke, like fireflies on an August evening.

"We need to find a replacement for Norris," said one of the men, quietly.

"Who got him?" asked his companion, with surprise and dread in his voice.

"No one got him. He was out buying a paper, then he turned all red, his eyes bugged out and he fell over. Collapsed, just like that. He's dead."

"What about Shipton?" came the suggestion after a thoughtful silence.

"He knows too much. Better to stay in Buffalo." There was another silence, and the second man spoke again, slowly.

"I might know someone. Met him almost a year ago on the train from Washington. Even let him stay with us at first, till he got settled. Name's Altamont. Might be a bit old, but he's still spry and he's real eager to help. Joined the Fenian order last month and now he has itchy fingers. Memory like an elephant -- dates, names, anything. Real good with engines too."

"What does he know about Ireland?"

"Says he was born there. County Cork, he always says."

The first man tossed the remains of his cigarette in the gutter and turned to go. The burning ashes reflected briefly in a stagnant pool of sewer water and then sank, hissing as they disappeared in the black liquid. Over his shoulder, the man gruffly called to his companion, "Bring his round next week. We'll see what he's made of." His receding footsteps echoed on the deserted streets.

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"There's really no reason for you to continue," said Mycroft as he lit a cigarette. "It has been nearly a year, and you have nothing to show for it."

Beatrice tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair where she was sitting. "Is it really so inconvenient to indulge me?" she asked.

Mycroft let out a series of blue smoke rings into the air and watched as they dissipated. "When a line of inquiry yields no results," he mused, "then accepted wisdom would have us abandon it. No, your country house frolics are not inconvenient, and no doubt they relieve some of the dullness of your routine, but surely even you grow tired of not achieving your purpose?"

"I am tired," Beatrice admitted. "And it is true, I have not had many fruitful leads. But neither has Holmes! Perhaps you are right. Perhaps we have been looking in the wrong places."

"Perhaps you have been looking for the wrong things?" suggested Mycroft.

"Do you have any better ideas?" Beatrice asked, growing frustrated.

"Not at this time, said Mycroft, but his eyes were focused on some fixed point in the far distance, as though he was waiting for it to come nearer and reveal itself. "It is too quiet," he murmured, and Beatrice was sure he was not referring to their present surroundings. She sighed.

"I'll just continue on, then. There's a party in Harwich in a fortnight," she said, rising to leave.

Startled from his reverie by her motion, Mycroft narrowed his eyes at her. "Be sensible," he said in parting. She smiled her sad secret smile once again.

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Ollie James seemed cheerful as he reached over the greasy table for his cup of coffee. As he did every time Holmes had seen him over breakfast at any of the reluctant restaurants they had eaten in across America, James sipped at the dark beverage, grimaced, and said,

"Tastes like shite."

Needless to say, the abhorrent flavour of the coffee neither stopped him from drinking all of it, nor altered his mood. It was the incongruous latter which occupied Holmes' thoughts now.

James, a professional burglar of some distinction, had been assigned to recover spare parts from a factory outside Buffalo. The job had been commissioned by the Fenian Brotherhood, a local secret society into which Holmes (or rather, his alter ego, Altamont) had recently been inducted. Altamont had been recruited for this job too, on James' urging. The younger man had taken a liking to the gruff Irish-American and found his skills in dissembling and disguise useful.

Holmes, his mind not content with petty thievery and masquerade, had also been developing his knowledge of machinery. His memory, keen as ever, grasped forms and relationships easily, so that he was now familiar with the internal workings of every engine from an automobile to a trans-Atlantic liner. It was this ability that made him useful to the Fenians, but even it was not enough. Infiltrating the factory had proven to be more difficult than originally estimated, and time was running out. James was not supposed to be humming contentedly under his breath. Yet, he had left their shared lodgings last night (a fact that Holmes knew, and Altamont feigned ignorance of) and Holmes could only conclude that the result of that nocturnal tryst had been a happy one.

"Have I ever introduced you to my brother?" asked Ollie as he swallowed a piece of blackened toast. It was a rhetorical question of the kind that irritated Holmes by its vagueness and futility. Altamont answered with a negative shake of his head.

"His name's Jack," Ollie continued. "He's visiting for a few days and I saw him last night."

"When did you manage to do that?" asked Altamont with false incredulity.

"You were asleep," Ollie said dismissively. "He wants to meet you. Might have a job for you that'll let you get back at those English you hate so much. He said to bring you around. You in?"

"I'm in," said Altamont, smiling at his imminent success.

Later, on a rainy evening in the middle of the next week, Altamont found himself smiling again. He and Ollie had recovered the necessary machinery and had earned their reward. The mission completed, Ollie was due to return to Chicago, but without his partner in crime. There had been a letter: His brother Jack had to depart immediately for Ireland and had left an invitation for Altamont (much-celebrated for his spectacular escape from the Buffalo police) to join his struggle against the English. Altamont was only too happy to comply.

He was on the trail, he was sure; and he would soon reach the centre.


	9. Return To Me

**Chapter Nine**

_Author's notes: Thank you Silverthreads (yes, I know, I don't update enough, but things have been busy!) Masked Phantom (good to see you back), HouAreYouToday (indeed), AerynFire (what wonderful compliments from one of my favourite writers!), Hermione Holmes (yes, she is determined, but I think the chase keeps her going, as I tried to say in chapter 6), and Elsie Cubitt (I can always count on thoughtful and thought-provoking comments from you, and I appreciate them tremendously. Apologies for the length – I was rereading this so far, and it does seem to be a collection of episodes rather than a narrative, but that's rather how it comes to me, I'm afraid…) Brewster Budgeon has been gleefully stolen from My Fair Lady. The house party guests are all fictional, but their names are stolen from the Monty Python 'Upperclass Twit' sketch. Why? Because I can. Sherringford's young lady is also stolen, you can guess from where. I figure, England is a small country, and it's my fantasy. Why couldn't one fictional character meet another? If J.M. Barrie and Conan Doyle played cricket together, then this can happen, too._

"Is there really no other way to get there?" Beatrice, who was clinging with white knuckles to the inner door handle of the speeding automobile as it lurched across the country roads, called over the noise of the engine at the driver.

"No, Aunt Beatrice, there is not. Not unless you want to ride on the back of an ox-cart," answered her nephew, Sherringford, coolly manouvering around just such a contraption as he switched into a higher gear.

"I detest automobiles," said Beatrice miserably, not for the first time. "It's all right for you young people, but my aging bones can't take all this bump and go!"

"It'll soon be over," said Sherringford, and lowered his speed as they rounded the corner and turned into a gated driveway. Sure enough, a house soon appeared into view. Sherringford Holmes parked his vehicle beside the other motorcars and got out to help Beatrice. Alighting carefully onto the gravel, Beatrice glanced around at the house, from which was emerging the hostess of the coming festivities, Mabel Budgeon. Letting go of Sherringford's hand, Beatrice waved in greeting.

"You've arrived safely!" exclaimed Mrs Budgeon, coming closer. "I do hope your nephew didn't drive recklessly, my dear – I don't know what I would have done if he didn't deliver you in one piece!"

"The journey was tolerable, thank you," answered Beatrice. "Have all the other guests arrived?"

"Most of them, yes," replied Mrs Budgeon, taking beatrice under the arm and leading her into the house. "Boozie's looking after them, and they're all such bores. I'm so glad you're here, my dear. Your conversation is so much livelier!"

'Boozie' was how anyone in the know referred to Mrs Budgeon's husband, though he had been christened Brewster. The old school nickname had stuck however, as most of his colleagues in the Home Office were, after all, old classmates. He had had the misfortune of marrying a woman of a lower social class, and although she had, with the decades, been grudgingly accepted by the other ministry wives, she had never gotten over her resentment at her previous treatment at their hands, and lost no opportunity to gossip about them behind their backs. Her companion of choice for such conversations was none other than Beatrice Holmes.

Beatrice, for her part, was only too happy to listen to Mrs Budgeon's stories of back room politics. As Sherringford's spinster aunt and chaperone, she listened very sympathetically to such tales, often asking her nephew for clarification later; Sherringford, though somewhat lacking in social graces, had an alarming talent for personal details that Beatrice could only hope he would never abuse. Now, at the Budgeon's home near Harwich, Beatrice hoped for a final opportunity to put all the gossip to a useful purpose.

As she and Mrs Budgeon entered the drawing-room, Beatrice noted all the familiar faces. On the left, near the window were Lord Hurlingham and the Right Honourable Vivian Smythe, engaged in what appeared to be a rousing debate about pork belly prices. Standing in a secluded corner by himself with a glass of brandy was Simon Trumpet-Harris, who was hardly ever interested in anyone else except when it came to money. Sir Nigel Jones and his much-younger wife were, as usual whispering angrily to each other, no doubt about her liason with Gervaise Brook, CBE, which was common knowledge. On the right, admiring the tapestry hanging against the oak panels was Oliver St John, who had recently left the Guards at his father's urging to hold the portfolio for Ireland. Beatrice had watched him closely before deciding that he knew no more than what his secretary told him. However, standing in the centre of the room, conversing in a very friendly manner with Boozie Budgeon was a man Beatrice did not know. His face was sunburned and his features aquiline. Although he held himself like a lifelong sportsman, his eyes were intelligent. Turning to her hostess, Beatrice nodded towards him.

"Who is that?" she asked.

"That's Adolph Von Bork," replied Mrs Budgeon. "He's a neighbour. He and his wife and children – he has six, can you imagine? – moved into the house down the lane two years ago. Boozie adores him because he loves sailing too. All they ever talk about is masts and rigging. There was a bit of a fuss at first, because he was a German, and apparently some people thought he was spying because the Chancellor happened to say something or other about our politics."

"What happened?" asked Beatrice eagerly.

"Well, some of the other Cabinet ministers thought that Adolph was passing on information from the parties and that he shouldn't be invited, but Boozie wouldn't hear any of it. He told them that a sporting man like Von Bork wouldn't be interested in something as womanly as gossip."

"And was he?"

Mrs Budgeon shrugged. "There hasn't been any trouble since. He's harmless, really. All he's ever shown any interest in is polo and hunting and yachting and races."

"Just guns and boats," murmured Beatrice as she continued to observe Von Bork.

"Exactly!" rejoined Mrs Budgeon merrily. "Now tell me, doesn't Lady Hurlingham look just like a table lamp in that frock?"

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It was all becoming a bit tedious and juvenile, really. Giving trouble to the police was something Sherlock Holmes was an expert in, what with his decades of dealing with criminals, and in his current incarnation as George Altamont, rioting in the streets and breaking glass was hardly a mental challenge. Jack James, the brother of his American friend Ollie, had put him to work as a sort of associate in a gang who called themselves the "Furies," and took it upon themselves to terrorize English shopkeepers and businessmen. While it was the younger men who carried out any actual brutality, Altamont was responsible for appropriating anything that seemed useful – documents, receipts, and sometimes, goods. These were usually transported to alternate locations and sorted. A man named Steiner, who ran a dry-goods store during the day, was responsible for the papers, and a man named Hollis, who employed a warehouse of workers, disposed of the goods. Had Holmes been born a more incredulous man, he might have gaped at the complexity and vastness of the network of crime in which his alter ego was now engaged. As it was, however, he was very busy trying to determine who was at the centre of this network. As he waited in the dark alleyway, waiting for the signal that his work could begin, his meditations were dispersed by the sound of shattering glass, and screams. After some moments, tiny footsteps rained down the little alley as a child tore past him. In the dim light of a corner streetlamp, Holmes saw the boy could not have been more than five. His heart gave a little tug in his chest.

_A little boy in a sailor suit buried his head in his mother's lap. He could not have been more than five years old, and his body shook with sobs._

"_But why must he be so, Mama?" the child cried, his voice muffled by his mother's skirts._

_His mother stroked his black hair. "You did break something of his, did you not?"_

"_Yes, Mama, but I did not mean to! I was just looking, and it slipped from my hands! But Papa was so cross with me!"_

_His mother laughed a little, gently and indulgently. "Well, Papa can make a tempest in a teacup sometimes. But don't you think it makes life more interesting?" Looking up and gazing at a point far away in the distance, she mused, "I have found that I like the chaos. On just has to make sure that one is in the eye of the storm. You think his work is interesting, don't you Garridan?" The boy nodded. "When your father invites you in, you will see it is a fascinating world. Oh yes, it's like being inside a kaleidoscope or a magic lantern at first, but it is a magical world."_

"_I like my kaleidoscope," said the boy, and his mother smiled at him._

"_And you would not like it if someone broke it. Now, go and apologise to your father, and ask him to show you properly. Mind you don't touch things without permission."_

_His father, who had witnessed this scene without moving from his place in the corridor, resolved then to come home at last._

Holmes turned, about to go after the child, when a shrill whistle sounded in the night air. He shrank into a doorway as he watched the Furies tumble out of the shop and into the waiting arms of the police. Some minutes later, when all was once again quiet, he turned up his collar again and emerged from his hiding place. Walking briskly out of the alley, he strode past the violated storefront, and towards home. A heavy hand hit his shoulder.

"You'd best come along, too," said a voice which would brook no argument. Not fancying a bout with a billy club, Altamont complied.

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"What do you know about A. Von Bork?" asked Beatrice later, as she escaped Mrs Budgeon and found her nephew.

Sherringford shrugged. "He has a villa that overlooks the sea, owns several prize-winning racehorses, and is generally thought to be quite a decent fellow for a German."

"And where does he get his income?" pressed Beatrice. "What is his profession?"

"I believe he owns some kind of shipping company. There are always people reporting to him with plans and papers."

Satisfied, Beatrice nodded. "We are leaving."

"Now?" asked Sherringford incredulously. "We can't leave now! I won't go!"

"Don't be insolent, Sherringford," said Beatrice. "You will take me back to London. And if you are concerned about that young lady –" she paused and looked over at a pert young woman who was laughing with a young man of military bearing "—then I suggest you give up your pursuit. She is obviously taken with another."

"How do you know?" her nephew insisted, his chest swelling indignantly. "Miss Jane Marple is a charming intelligent young woman…"

"… who is not destined to be your wife," concluded Beatrice, as she maneuvered Sherringford out of the room. "Luckily for her," she murmured under her breath.

"How are we to explain ourselves?" blustered the young man.

Beatrice stopped in her tracks and looked her nephew straight in the eye. "You will tell them that your hysterical aunt is insisting on leaving and that you must take her. It is as simple as that."

Indeed, as they drove away, Beatrice once again proved herself to be right.

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Daylight streamed down from a skylight into the interview room at the jail, and made the inspector's bald head gleam with perspiration. It had taken some convincing for the local authorities to bring in Scotland Yard. Having been arrested without his official documents, Holmes had had to muster all his negotiation skills to argue that he was not, in fact, George Altamont, American citizen, but Sherlock Holmes, loyal subject of His Majesty the King of England, and renowned detective. It seemed that even the Scotland Yard inspector, once he arrived, was entirely convinced.

The man leaned back in his chair and stared across the table at Holmes. "So you say that these men Hollis and Steiner are receiving orders from someone?"

"Of course they are. Hollis runs a warehouse of men who assemble guns. There must be someone who needs the weapons."

"Could it not be Steiner himself?" asked the suspicious inspector.

"But someone has to pay Hollis, and Steiner does not have the money," pointed out Holmes, feeling weary of this interrogation.

The inspector stood up and began to pace the tiny room. "So now we have this information. Now we must arrest the criminals."

"No!" exclaimed Holmes. "They must stay in place until I find out who is at the head of this operation."

The inspector's face was marred by an ugly smile. "And what will be our guarantee? Another alias, perhaps?"

Holmes drew himself up. "I think, Inspector, that your superiors, to whom I have been very useful in the past, will guarantee my integrity and reliability."

The inspector sniffed. "Very well. Your bond's been posted, anyway. You're free to go." And with a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestured for Holmes to exit.

Reunited at last with his belongings, Holmes looked for his savior in the lobby of the prison. All that he could see at first was a giant hat. As he came closer, the mass of feathers and silk flowers moved and revealed beneath the wide brim a very familiar face. Waiting for him alone in the marble hall on a wooden bench, dressed in a smart tailored suit, and a parasol in her gloved hands, was Beatrice. She stood to meet him.

"I've got your man," she declared by way of greeting.

"Is he perchance hidden in your chapeau?" asked Holmes acerbically, gazing in wonderment at this masterpiece of the milliner's art.

Beatrice sighed. "I would have you know that this is the height of fashion, Holmes. You would not imagine the lengths to which I have gone to be so fashionable, and all for you."

"For that," Holmes said, taking her arm, "I am truly sorry." They walked out of the building together into a waiting cab.


	10. A Trick to Catch the Old One

**Chapter Ten**

_Author's Notes: Thank you Silverthreads, Haley Macrae, and Hermione Holmes. My apologies for the month-long delay. I started a new full-time job, and it's been a real learning curve. I envision maybe three or four more chapters (maybe less, depending on how well-spoken I am) so hopefully I'll finish this by the end of the summer. Or not, as the case may be! This is a very artistic chapter, now that I think of it. There are plenty of allusions to paintings, which makes me wish I could illustrate this story. Charles is inspired by Brideshead Revisited, though I am fully aware that that story takes place much later than does this one. Oh, and I chose Eton because Jeremy Brett went there._

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The three of them sat a table at the back of the dining room of the Diogenes Club. It was half-past three, and the waiters wafted around the room like flies in the lazy afternoon sunshine. It was too late for lunch but not early enough for dinner; most of the table emptied of patrons, the waiters arranged plates, cutlery, napkins and glasses, causing distant clinks and chimes to occasionally reach the ears of the three Holmeses who sat talking.

The dining room was a long rectangular space, without windows. From his seat, his back against the farthest wall, Mycroft presided over the expanse of tables covered with white linen tablecloths. Brass light fixtures recessed into niches in the walls dimly illuminated the red flocked wallpaper. Here and there, wilting potted palm trees shielded from view certain unavoidable fixtures of a restaurant from the eyes of the gentility – sideboards, stacks of extra chairs, and so on. The room hadn't been redecorated since the club took over these premises, but that suited most of its members perfectly. Many were misanthropes anyway; some, like Mycroft Holmes were too preoccupied to really consider the aesthetics of their surroundings.

Indeed, in addition to being too intellectually busy, Mycroft was the product of an earlier era. It was an accident of fate that life had so accelerated recently, but his own lifespan had not altered with it. Mycroft was nearly a generation older than his sister-in-law Beatrice, and even she was being left behind by a rapidly changing society. While they were still living and governing, their traditions might still survive – but it was clear even now that they were no longer truly relevant. The customs and habits which informed their daily routine had become a comfortable background, like the old-fashioned dining room, instead of a vital aspect of their lives.

To an observer with an artistic eye and a developed imagination, the sight of Mycroft, Sherlock and Beatrice Holmes around a table would have called to mind paintings of war councils. The elder Holmes brother sat at the head of the table, files, folders, and dossiers spilling out in front of him. To his right sat his younger sibling, attired simply and soberly. He was leaning back in his chair, his hands in his trouser pockets, his bearded chin like an apostrophe in body language. To Mycroft's left sat Beatrice, lingering over a long-cold cup of tea. In her left hand, she held a biscuit and used it to gesticulate, pointing it at this or that paper as she spoke softly. The triangular composition of the figures, the restricted color palette, the _chiaroscuro_ lighting, combined into a sort of _tableau-vivant_, a pastiche of a Jacques-Louis David. Here too, just as in Revolutionary France, the Empire was at stake.

"It is certainly an extraordinary stroke of luck that you stumbled onto Von Bork," Mycroft said to Beatrice.

"It is neither luck nor coincidence," she retorted. "It was a matter of months of precise calculation and the careful elimination of suspects. According to your methods," she nodded towards Sherlock.

"I do not always have the luxury of making my conclusions at dinner parties," Holmes replied sardonically. "And I usually try to have some hard evidence."

Mycroft nodded. "Scotland Yard will not arrest him merely on your suspicions – reasonable though they may be. The German government would not respond kindly to one of their citizens being arrested without due process, and the Foreign Office does not wish to deal with another international scandal."

"—Though that is exactly what they will have if Von Bork isn't stopped,' Holmes remarked crisply, knowing full well that much of the Foreign Office's reluctance was due to his involvement in this case, and the reputation that he still held in diplomatic circles as a result of the events of 1891-94.

"Well, if direct action will not work, then we must resort to trickery," suggested Beatrice.

"Spoken like a true woman. You are a testament to your sex," Mycroft smiled.

"I have already made myself indispensable to his organization," mused Holmes. "It will not be such a drastic step to make myself indispensable to its leader. I could provide a service, something he needs badly."

"—Britain's military and naval plans," completed Beatrice.

"Exactly!" Holmes exclaimed as he tipped his chair forward again in his enthusiasm. "I could provide him with altered copies or forgeries, papers that would mislead the German generals if – or rather, when -- they found their way into their hands, but would be traced back to Von Bork if intercepted by the British." Holmes looked at his brother levelly. "I would need the government's full cooperation in this."

Mycroft smiled again, a sly smile that was not unlike that of Beatrice's late uncle. "Tit for tat, Sherlock. The British Empire needs guarantees."

"There can be no guarantees in a game such as this," scoffed Holmes. "All I can give is my predictions of certainty, but even I have been mistaken once or twice."

"In lieu of those, we will settle for temporary stability." Mycroft said and gestured to the dossiers on the table. "We know that Von Bork does not operate alone. For each plan provided to Von Bork, the government will require one of his men in return." He smiled again, and leaned against the back of his chair, his massive bulk resting against the hard wooden spindles. "Essentially, this will kill two birds with one stone. The Germans will be thwarted, and Britain will rid itself of these parasites."

There was silence for several minutes as Holmes sat thinking, his steepled fingertips touching the tip of his nose. Finally, he spoke. "Ruthlessly efficient, as always, brother." Mycroft bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the compliment. "Yes, I will do it, but it will not be as easy as all that."

"You've always been a stickler for details," Mycroft replied in a joking tone.

Holmes ignored the interruption and continued. "I can name names, but only Von Bork can provide the proof we need for 'due process,' as you called it. Additionally, he will have to be monitored closely to ensure that our plans are proceeding accordingly. I will need help with this." Holmes' eyes wandered to Beatrice and he quirked his eyebrow at her in an unspoken question.

"What about Sherrinford?" she asked cautiously, misunderstanding the inquiry.

Almost in one voice, at the same moment, both brothers answered, "He has served his purpose."

Comprehending at last, Beatrice's eyes widened and she shook her head emphatically. "But what can I do? I've already found him for you – I can hardly plant myself in his bushes for round-the-clock surveillance!" she exclaimed.

Holmes tilted his chair back again, balancing precariously, and a satisfied smile appeared on his face. "I had a much more comfortable place in mind for you, Martha," he said, using her old pseudonym. "You will have bed and board, plenty of servants, and the opportunity to monitor all the goings-on in Von Bork's household."

"How?" Beatrice asked, her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?" asked Mycroft. "You will be the von Bork's new housekeeper! I would have thought such a situation would appeal to you. You do so enjoy being involved."

"We can procure all the glowing references you will need," said Holmes. "And you will be trained. The niece of my old Baker Street landlady is a housekeeper at a country estate in Surrey – you will go study with her for a few weeks while I tie up loose ends in Skibbareen. When we meet again, we shall have Von Bork from both sides."

"But I've never done an honest days; work in my life!" stammered an indignant and overwhelmed Beatrice.

"Then this is your chance to repay your debt to society," Holmes said blithely, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Mycroft, who had watched this last exchange with obvious amusement, reached over and patted Beatrice's hand. "You can be sure your help will be indispensable," he said reassuringly. "Besides, my dear, it isn't really _honest_ work at all, is it?"

His logic, Beatrice had to agree, was incontrovertible.

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"This is where you were brought up?" Garridan's friend asked as the stern Elizabethan façade of Manor Farm came into view.

In the shadowed back seat of the chauffeured car making its way across the Downs, Garridan Holmes nodded. "It looks worse than it is. But really, it was all quite typical, just like you see it in pictures. The Grand Victorian Tradition, you know," he drawled, his emphasis making his feelings clear. "A nanny in a starched collar, a giant perambulator, an upstairs nursery and brass bedsteads, and seeing Mummy and Father every night before bedtime as they sat down to dinner."

When the car at last stopped in front of the red door in its Gothic arch, Garridan was out first. He stood on the sandy driveway and stretched slightly, taking his time to look over his childhood home again. He attended Eton, like his father had done before him, and only came back for holidays, and even then, not every one. The last term break, he had stayed with Charles and his family, and now Charles was visiting him.

Now nearly 16, he had grown tall and thin, with a keen intellect and strong instincts like his father. He had, however, his mother's soft features, and his dark eyes radiated both empathy and intelligence. He had taken up rowing, and the muscles with now embraced his lean frame complemented his youth and beauty, as was then the fashion. Running his left hand through his long hair, he patted his body with the right, in search for his cigarette case. Having found it in his coat pocket, he withdrew one, and offered another to Charles.

"Well, now I see where you are spending your allowance," came a voice behind him, and his mother's hand snatched the offending cigarette out of Garridan's mouth, throwing it to the ground. "It is a disgusting habit, as I have many times told your father," she said sternly as the two boys turned to face her.

"Mother –" Garridan began, and paused, not knowing whether to resist this act of parental authority, or whether to surrender and merely introduce his friend in greeting.

Beatrice's expression softened, and she extended her hand to Charles. "You must be Garridan's friend," she said, smiling. "He wrote to say you were coming together. I hope you will enjoy your stay here as much as Garridan enjoyed his Christmas break with you and your family."

"Thank you," said Charles, shaking his hostess's hand. "Garridan told me that the scenery here is superb. I have even brought my painting kit in the hopes of capturing some of it." He nodded toward the trunk of the car, where a small suitcase was being lifted out by the chauffeur.

"An artist?" Beatrice exclaimed. "How very interesting! You will certainly enjoy it here. The Downs can be very picturesque, and several of our tenants live in rather quaint rustic cottages that lend a certain spirit to the countryside."

"I'm not really an artist, I just daub a little here and there," Charles said bashfully.

"I'm sure you're just being modest," said Beatrice generously, and spread out her arms, ushering the boys inside. "Let's go in and have some tea," she said, and her guests obeyed.

As he looked at her serving tea and asking her son and himself polite questions, Charles could not help but think of a certain painting he had seen reproduced in a book. Garridan's mother reminded him of the Baroness Rothschild, her eyes and posture indicating intense interest in the conversation. Even her hair, arranged as it was in soft folds around her face, evoked an echo of the Ingres work. It did not matter that Beatrice was older, and her dark glossy hair beginning to turn grey – Charles saw the silvery sheen as reminiscent of the feather arrangement that crowned the Baroness's head. It was clear to him the overall quiet dignity, the intellectual curiosity that united the two women across time.

While his friend pondered matters of high art, Garridan was also observing his mother. What he saw, however, disturbed him. Beatrice was flushed, her usually-pale face having acquired an unnatural redness around the cheeks and nose. Her skin was not the smooth surface it had been, and her eyes were tired and a little swollen. As she passed him a plate of sandwiches, he noted that her hands were rough and chapped. He reached for the sandwich, but took her hand instead, examining it in his own palm.

"What have you been doing, Mamma?" he asked with some concern, oblivious to the fact that he had interrupted what she was saying to Charles.

Beatrice let out a small carefree laugh, and shrugged. "I expect I've been out in the sun too much this summer. Your father wishes me to look after his bees, and so I'm always in the garden. He's back from America, you know, but he is still away on business. Somewhere in Ireland, I believe."

Garridan was not convinced, but allowed his conversation to be steered away from his concerns about his mother to what he believed to be the unrelated topic of his father; for he had not realized, as many children do not realize, that the fates of his parents were always connected.

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"What is that delicious smell, Martha Hudson?" came the familiar, but unexpected voice.

With a start, Martha dropped the spoon with which she had been stirring the soup over the stove, and let it clatter on the kitchen floor. "May the Devil take you, George Altamont!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands on her apron, and bending down to retrieve the utensil. "You scared me out of my wits!"

"Are we alone?" Altamont asked, a rakish twinkle in his eye.

"Yes, thank Providence. The whole brood is gone, sailing to back to Germany. Dismissed the rest of the servants, too. The master thinks he's nearly finished here."

"And so he is," confirmed Altamont, twirling his moustache with one long finger.

"Who is it this time?" Martha asked quietly, though there was no one left to hear.

"Steiner. His name would have given him away if I hadn't," shrugged the American.

"And the signals?"

"Are ready. In both versions, of course." Altamont walked over to the stove and leaned down to smell the simmering broth. "I will miss this, Martha, when it ends," he said.

"But it must end, and it will be out of your hands," Martha replied, knowing he referred not to their kitchen trysts but to the larger problem.

Altamont nodded. "I will come tomorrow night. Ready the signal, as always, and don't worry – I have it all in hand. And now, if you wouldn't mind sparing me some soup for my journey back to my sad bachelor flat?"

Martha shook her head and smiled, but obliged, ladling out the steaming stew into a smaller pot. "Be on your way," she said, rushing Altamont out the door. "I think I hear the master coming."

"Until tomorrow, then," Altamont waved as he disappeared into the thick night.

"Until tomorrow," Martha whispered, and awaited her own meeting with Von Bork.


	11. Catch and Release

**Chapter 10**

_Author's Notes: Thank you to Silverthreads, Elsie Cubitt (actually, you asked me if Holmes completes Beatrice, and I hope that question has also been answered), Voila (Thanks, Polt318!), HouAreYouToday and Hermione Holmes (Come on! You really didn't see it coming? I've been setting up Martha since TGH!) What I am about to do with this chapter is probably highly illegal, but I got away with it in TGH, and it's a good tool for what I want to do. This time, unlike in other chapters, the italics belong to Conan Doyle's writing; the rest is mine… There will be an epilogue after this chapter._

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The bell pealed insistently, so she turned down the gas on the stove and hurried upstairs. Entering her master's oak-paneled study, she stood and waited for instructions as he finished sealing an envelope.

"Mrs Hudson, I want you to post these letters for me," he said, giving her a packet of papers.

"Yes, sir," she curtseyed. "Will there be anything else?"

"Not unless you have changed your mind, and wish to travel with my family after all," he smiled.

"Oh sir, you are generous, but it's impossible," she began, inwardly blessing the heat in the kitchen for the blush in her cheeks.

"Yes, yes, I know. You have to stay for your invalid brother. You told me yesterday." He waved his hand. At the last word, a slight accent crept into his speech; a Teutonic remnant untouched by years of British schooling. "It would be better for you with us, you know, in these uncertain times… But I grow sentimental. Very well, Mrs Martha Hudson, have it your way. I am expecting a couple of visitors this evening, but I will let them in myself. You can get to the business of closing up the house for good."

"Very well, sir," Martha curtseyed again, Clutching the packet of letters to her bosom, she knew that she could spend the afternoon undisturbed. With a little luck, the kettle on the stove was boiling happily, and she would be able to steam open the envelopes and copy the contents. These being Von Bork's final communications, they might contain something incriminating. And before long, it would be time to light the lamp…

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_It was nine o'clock at night upon the second of August — the most terrible August in the history of the world. One might have thought already that God's curse hung heavy over a degenerate world, for there was an awesome hush and a feeling of vague expectancy in the sultry and stagnant air. The sun had long set, but one blood-red gash like an open wound lay low in the distant west. Above, the stars were shining brightly, and below, the lights of the shipping glimmered in the bay. The two famous Germans stood beside the stone parapet of the garden walk, with the long, low, heavily gabled house behind them, and they looked down upon the broad sweep of the beach at the foot of the great chalk cliff on which A. von Bork, like some wandering eagle, had perched himself four years before. They stood with their heads close together, talking in low, confidential tones. From below the two glowing ends of their cigars might have been the smoldering eyes of some malignant fiend looking down in the darkness._

_A remarkable man this A. von Bork — a man who could hardly be matched among all the devoted agents of the Kaiser. It was his talents which had first recommended him for the English mission, the most important mission of all, but since he had taken it over those talents had become more and more manifest to the half-dozen people in the world who were really in touch with the truth. One of these was his present companion, Baron Avon Herling, the chief secretary of the legation, whose huge 100-horsepower Benz car was blocking the country lane as it waited to waft its owner back to London._

_"So far as I can judge the trend of events, you will probably be back in Berlin within the week," the secretary was saying. "When you get there, my dear A. von Bork, I think you will be surprised at the welcome you will receive. I happen to know what is thought in the highest quarters of your work in this country." He was a huge man, the secretary, deep, broad, and tall, with a slow, heavy fashion of speech which had been his main asset in his political career._

_A. von Bork laughed. "They are not very hard to deceive," he remarked. "A more docile, simple folk could not be imagined."_

_"I don't know about that," said the other thoughtfully. "They have strange limits and one must learn to observe them. It is that surface simplicity of theirs which makes a trap for the stranger. One's first impression is that they are entirely soft. Then one comes suddenly upon something very hard, and you know that you have reached the limit and must adapt yourself to the fact. They have, for example, their insular conventions which simply must be observed."_

_"Meaning, 'good form' and that sort of thing?" A. von Bork sighed as one who had suffered much._

_"Meaning British prejudice in all its queer manifestations. As an example I may quote one of my own worst blunders — I can afford to talk of my blunders, for you know my work well enough to be aware of my successes. It was on my first arrival. I was invited to a weekend gathering at the country house of a cabinet minister. The conversation was amazingly indiscreet."_

_A. von Bork nodded. "I've been there," said he dryly._

_"Exactly. Well, I naturally sent a resume of the information to Berlin. Unfortunately our good chancellor is a little heavy-handed in these matters, and he transmitted a remark which showed that he was aware of what had been said. This, of course, took the trail straight up to me. You've no idea the harm that it did me. There was nothing soft about our British hosts on that occasion, I can assure you. I was two years living it down. Now you, with this sporting pose of yours —"_

_"No, no, don't call it a pose. A pose is an artificial thing. This is quite natural. I am a born sportsman. I enjoy it."_

_"Well, that makes it the more effective. You yacht against them, you hunt with them, you play polo, you match them in every game, your four-in-hand takes the prize at Olympia. I have even heard that you go the length of boxing with the young officers. What is the result? Nobody takes you seriously. You are a 'good old sport,' 'quite a decent fellow for a German,' a hard-drinking, nightclub, knock-about-town, devil-may-care young fellow. And all the time this quiet country house of yours is the center of half the mischief in England, and the sporting squire the most astute secret-service man in Europe. Genius, my dear A. von Bork, genius!"_

_"You flatter me, Baron. But certainly I may claim that my four years in this country have not been unproductive. I've never shown you my little store. Would you mind stepping in for a moment?"_

_The door of the study opened straight on to the terrace. A. von Bork pushed it back, and, leading the way, he clicked the switch of the electric light. He then closed the door behind the bulky form which followed him and carefully adjusted the heavy curtain over the latticed window. Only when all these precautions had been taken and tested did he turn his sunburned aquiline face to his guest._

_"Some of my papers have gone," said he. "When my wife and the household left yesterday for Flushing they took the less important with them. I must, of course, claim the protection of the embassy for the others."_

_"Your name has already been filed as one of the personal suite. There will be no difficulties for you or your baggage. Of course, it is just possible that we may not have to go. England may leave France to her fate. We are sure that there is no binding treaty between them."_

_"And Belgium?"_

_"Yes, and Belgium, too."_

_A. von Bork shook his head. "I don't see how that could be. There is a definite treaty there. She could never recover from such a humiliation."_

_"She would at least have peace for the moment."_

_"But her honor?"_

_"Tut, my dear sir, we live in a utilitarian age. Honor is a mediaeval conception. Besides England is not ready. It is an inconceivable thing, but even our special war tax of fifty million, which one would think made our purpose as clear as if we had advertised it on the front page of the Times, has not roused these people from their slumbers. Here and there one hears a question. It is my business to find an answer. Here and there also there is an irritation. It is my business to soothe it. But I can assure you that so far as the essentials go — the storage of munitions, the preparation for submarine attack, the arrangements for making high explosives — nothing is prepared. How, then, can England come in, especially when we have stirred her up such a devil's brew of Irish civil war, window-breaking Furies, and God knows what to keep her thoughts at home."_

_"She must think of her future."_

_"Ah, that is another matter. I fancy that in the future we have our own very definite plans about England, and that your information will be very vital to us. It is today or tomorrow. with Mr. John Bull. If he prefers today. we are perfectly ready. If it is tomorrow. we shall be more ready still. I should think they would be wiser to fight with allies than without them, but that is their own affair. This week is their week of destiny. But you were speaking of your papers." He sat in the armchair with the light shining upon his broad bald head, while he puffed sedately at his cigar._

_The large oak-paneled, book-lined room had a curtain hung in the further corner. When this was drawn it disclosed a large, brassbound safe. A. von Bork detached a small key from his watch chain, and after some considerable manipulation of the lock he swung open the heavy door. "Look!" said he, standing clear, with a wave of his hand._

_The light shone vividly into the opened safe, and the secretary of the embassy gazed with an absorbed interest at the rows of stuffed pigeonholes with which it was furnished. Each pigeonhole had its label, and his eyes as he glanced along them read a long series of such titles as "Fords," "Harbor defenses," "Airplanes," "Ireland," "Egypt," "Portsmouth forts," "The Channel," "Rosythe," and a score of others. Each compartment was bristling with papers and plans. "Colossal!" said the secretary. Putting down his cigar he softly clapped his fat hands._

_"And all in four years, Baron. Not such a bad show for the hard-drinking, hard-riding country squire. But the gem of my collection is coming and there is the setting all ready for it." He pointed to a space over which "Naval Signals" was printed._

_"But you have a good dossier there already."_

_"Out of date and waste paper. The Admiralty in some way got the alarm and every code has been changed. It was a blow, Baron — the worst setback in my whole campaign. But thanks to my checkbook and the good Altamont all will be well tonight."_

_The Baron looked at his watch and gave a guttural exclamation of disappointment. "Well, I really can wait no longer. You can imagine that things are moving at present in Carlton Terrace and that we have all to be at our posts. I had hoped to be able to bring news of your great coup. Did Altamont name no hour?"_

_A. von Bork pushed over a telegram. _

_Will come without fail tonight. and bring new sparking plugs._

_ALTAMONT. _

_"Sparking plugs, eh?"_

_"You see he poses as a motor expert and I keep a full garage. In our code everything likely to come up is named after some spare part. If he talks of a radiator it is a battleship, of an oil pump a cruiser, and so on. Sparking plugs are naval signals."_

_"From Portsmouth at midday," said the secretary, examining the superscription. "By the way, what do you give him?"_

_"Five hundred pounds for this particular job. Of course he has a salary as well."_

_"The greedy rogue. They are useful, these traitors, but I grudge them their blood money."_

_"I grudge Altamont nothing. He is a wonderful worker. If I pay him well, at least he delivers the goods, to use his own phrase. Besides he is not a traitor. I assure you that our most pan-Germanic Junker is a sucking dove in his feelings towards England as compared with a real bitter Irish-American"_

_"Oh, an Irish-American?"_

_"If you heard him talk you would not doubt it. Sometimes I assure you I can hardly understand him. He seems to have declared war on the King's English as well as on the English king. Must you really go? He may be here any moment."_

_"No. I'm sorry, but I have already overstayed my time. We shall expect you early tomorrow., and when you get that signal book through the little door on the Duke of York's steps you can put a triumphant finis to your record in England. What! Tokay!" He indicated a heavily sealed dust-covered bottle which stood with two high glasses upon a salver._

_"May I offer you a glass before your journey?"_

_"No, thanks. But it looks like revelry."_

_"Altamont has a nice taste in wines, and he took a fancy to my Tokay. He is a touchy fellow and needs humoring in small things. I have to study him, I assure you." _

_They had strolled out on to the terrace again, and along it to the further end where at a touch from the Baron's chauffeur the great car shivered and chuckled. "Those are the lights of Harwich, I suppose," said the secretary, pulling on his dust coat. "How still and peaceful it all seems. There may be other lights within the week, and the English coast a less tranquil place! The heavens, too, may not be quite so peaceful if all that the good Zeppelin promises us comes true. By the way, who is that?"_

_Only one window showed a light behind them; in it there stood a lamp, and beside it, seated at a table, was a dear old ruddy-faced woman in a country cap. She was bending over her knitting and stopping occasionally to stroke a large black cat upon a stool beside her._

_"That is Martha, the only servant I have left."_

_The secretary chuckled. "She might almost personify Britannia," said he, "with her complete self-absorption and general air of comfortable somnolence. Well, au revoir, A. von Bork!" _

_With a final wave of his hand he sprang into the car, and a moment later the two golden cones from the headlights shot forward through the darkness. The secretary lay back in the cushions of the luxurious limousine, with his thoughts so full of the impending European tragedy that he hardly observed that as his car swung round the village street it nearly passed over a little Ford coming in the opposite direction._

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He had Watson park the car in the bushes, just before the turn in the country road. The inky shadows hid the little Ford automobile well, and the view was unobstructed to both the house and the port beyond. Holmes kept his eyes fixed on the terrace, where the glow from the sunset and the lights of the harbour illuminated two silhouettes. Every so often, he would turn his gaze to a small window toward the back of the house, where a lamp stood lit on the windowsill. Beside him, Watson stirred, and groaned slightly.

"I say, Holmes, this is just like old times. My knee is as stiff as ever, and I can't see a thing."

"I'm sorry to put you through this Watson, but I can promise the result will be worthwhile," Holmes replied quietly, still not taking his eyes off the target of their surveillance.

Watson stretched again and rubbed his knee. "Oh, I don't mind this. It feels good to be back in action. I just wish I knew what the action was!"

"You are about to find out, old fellow," said Holmes, a note of enthusiasm that had hitherto been missing, creeping into his voice. The lamp in the window had gone out, and from the side of the house, there could be heard the sound of a car engine roaring to life. "You have the ropes ready?" Holmes asked his companion.

"Ready," nodded Watson.

"Very good. Now let us approach the house of A. Von Bork, where half the mischief of the British Empire has been designed."

Watson shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition. "I don't know where you find them, Holmes, these scheming villains."

"At the end of the world, Watson," replied Holmes, settling back in his seat like a satisfied general observing his troops advancing. "The game is afoot!"

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_A. von Bork walked slowly back to the study when the last gleams of the motor lamps had faded into the distance. As he passed he observed that his old housekeeper had put out her lamp and retired. It was a new experience to him, the silence and darkness of his widespread house, for his family and household had been a large one. It was a relief to him, however, to think that they were all in safety and that, but for that one old woman who had lingered in the kitchen, he had the whole place to himself. _

_There was a good deal of tidying up to do inside his study and he set himself to do it until his keen, handsome face was flushed with the heat of the burning papers. A leather valise stood beside his table, and into this he began to pack very neatly and systematically the precious contents of his safe. He had hardly got started with the work, however, when his quick ears caught the sound of a distant car. Instantly he gave an exclamation of satisfaction, strapped up the valise, shut the safe, locked it, and hurried out on to the terrace. He was just in time to see the lights of a small car come to a halt at the gate. A passenger sprang out of it and advanced swiftly towards him, while the chauffeur, a heavily built, elderly man with a gray mustache, settled down like one who resigns himself to a long vigil._

_"Well?" asked A. von Bork eagerly, running forward to meet his visitor. _

_For answer the man waved a small brown-paper parcel triumphantly above his head. "You can give me the glad hand tonight., mister," he cried. "I'm bringing home the bacon at last."_

_"The signals?"_

_"Same as I said in my cable. Every last one of them, semaphore, lamp code, Marconi — a copy, mind you, not the original. That was too dangerous. But it's the real goods, and you can lay to that." He slapped the German upon the shoulder with a rough familiarity from which the other winced._

_"Come in," he said. "I'm all alone in the house. I was only waiting for this. Of course a copy is better than the original. If an original were missing they would change the whole thing. You think it's all safe about the copy?"_

_The Irish-American had entered the study and stretched his long limbs from the armchair. He was a tall, gaunt man of sixty, with clear-cut features and a small goatee beard which gave him a general resemblance to the caricatures of Uncle Sam. A half-smoked, sodden cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, and as he sat down he struck a match and relit it. "Making ready for a move?" he remarked as he looked round him. "Say, mister," he added, as his eyes fell upon the safe from which the curtain was now removed, "you don't tell me you keep your papers in that?"_

_"Why not?"_

_"Gosh, in a wide-open contraption like that! And they reckon you to be some spy. Why, a Yankee crook would be into that with a can-opener If I'd known that any letter of mine was goin' to lie loose in a thing like that I'd have been a mug to write to you at all."_

_"It would puzzle any crook to force that safe," A. von Bork answered. "You won't cut that metal with any tool."_

_"But the lock?"_

_"No, it's a double combination lock. You know what that is?"_

_"Search me," said the American._

_"Well, you need a word as well as a set of figures before you can get the lock to work." He rose and showed a double radiating disc round the keyhole. "This outer one is for the letters, the inner one for the figures."_

_"Well, well, that's fine."_

_"So it's not quite as simple as you thought. It was four years ago that I had it made, and what do you think I chose for the word and figures?"_

_"It's beyond me."_

_"Well, I chose August for the word, and 1914 for the figures, and here we are."_

_The American's face showed his surprise and admiration. "My, but that was smart! You had it down to a fine thing."_

_"Yes, a few of us even then could have guessed the date. Here it is, and I'm shutting down tomorrow morning. "_

_"Well, I guess you'll have to fix me up also. I'm not staying in this goldarned country all on my lonesome. In a week or less, from what I see, John Bull will be on his hind legs and fair romping. I'd rather watch him from over the water."_

_"But you're an American citizen?"_

_"Well, so was Jack James an American citizen, but he's doing time in Portland all the same. It cuts no ice with a British copper to tell him you're an American citizen. 'It's British law and order over here,' says he. By the way, mister, talking of Jack James, it seems to me you don't do much to cover your men."_

_"What do you mean?" A. von Bork asked sharply._

_"Well, you are their employer, ain't you? It's up to you to see that they don't fall down. But they do fall down, and when did you ever pick them up? There's James —"_

_"It was James's own fault. You know that yourself. He was too self-willed for the job."_

_"James was a bonehead — I give you that. Then there was Hollis. "_

_"The man was mad."_

_"Well, he went a bit woozy towards the end. It's enough to make a man bug out when he has to play a part from morning to night with a hundred guys all ready to set the coppers wise to him. But now there is Steiner —"_

_A. von Bork started violently, and his ruddy face turned a shade paler. "What about Steiner?"_

_"Well, they've got him, that's all. They raided his store last night, and he and his papers are all in Portsmouth jail. You'll go off and he, poor devil, will have to stand the racket, and lucky if he gets off with his life. That's why I want to get over the water as soon as you do."_

_A. von Bork was a strong, self-contained man, but it was easy to see that the news had shaken him. "How could they have got on to Steiner?" he muttered. "That's the worst blow yet."_

_"Well, you nearly had a worse one, for I believe they are not far off me."_

_"You don't mean that!"_

_"Sure thing. My landlady down Fratton way had some inquiries, and when I heard of it I guessed it was time for me to hustle. But what I want to know, mister, is how the coppers know these things? Steiner is the fifth man you've lost since I signed on with you, and I know the name of the sixth if I don't get a move on. How do you explain it, and ain't you ashamed to see your men go down like this?"_

_A. von Bork flushed crimson. "How dare you speak in such a way!"_

_"If I didn't dare things, mister, I wouldn't be in your service. But I'll tell you straight what is in my mind. I've heard that with you German politicians when an agent has done his work you are not sorry to see him put away."_

_A. von Bork sprang to his feet. "Do you dare to suggest that I have given away my own agents!"_

_"I don't stand for that, mister, but there's a stool pigeon or a cross somewhere, and it's up to you to find out where it is. Anyhow I am taking no more chances. It's me for little Holland, and the sooner the better."_

_A. von Bork had mastered his anger. "We have been allies too long to quarrel now at the very hour of victory," he said. "You've done splendid work and taken risks, and I can't forget it. By all means go to Holland, and you can get a boat from Rotterdam to New York. No other line will be safe a week from now. I'll take that book and pack it with the rest."_

_The American held the small parcel in his hand, but made no motion to give it up. "What about the dough?" he asked._

_"The what?"_

_"The boodle. The reward. The 500 pounds. The gunner turned damned nasty at the last, and I had to square him with an extra hundred dollars or it would have been risky for you and me. 'Nothin' doin'!' says he, and he meant it, too, but the last hundred did it. It's cost me two hundred pound from first to last, so it isn't likely I'd give it up without gettin' my wad. "_

_A. von Bork smiled with some bitterness. "You don't seem to have a very high opinion of my honor," said he, "you want the money before you give up the book."_

_"Well, mister, it is a business proposition."_

_"All right. Have your way." He sat down at the table and scribbled a check, which he tore from the book, but he refrained from handing it to his companion. "After all, since we are to be on such terms, Mr. Altamont," said he, "I don't see why I should trust you any more than you trust me. Do you understand?" he added, looking back over his shoulder at the American. "There's the check upon the table. I claim the right to examine that parcel before you pick the money up."_

_The American passed it over without a word. A. von Bork undid a winding of string and two wrappers of paper. Then he sat gazing for a moment in silent amazement at a small blue book which lay before him. Across the cover was printed in golden letters Practical Handbook of Bee Culture. Only for one instant did the master spy glare at this strangely irrelevant inscription. The next he was gripped at the back of his neck by a grasp of iron, and a chloroformed sponge was held in front of his writhing face._

_"Another glass, Watson!" said Mr. Sherlock Holmes as he extended the bottle of Imperial Tokay._

_The thickset chauffeur, who had seated himself by the table pushed forward his glass with some eagerness._

_"It is a good wine, Holmes."_

_"A remarkable wine, Watson. Our friend upon the sofa has assured me that it is from Franz Josef's special cellar at the Schoenbrunn Palace. Might I trouble you to open the window for chloroform vapor. does not help the palate."_

Martha was fastening the lid on her overflowing trunk when she heard the noises of a struggle upstairs. Dropping her own struggle with the luggage, she picked up her swirl of skirts and ran up the stairs. Reaching the hallway, she crept ever closer to the door of Von Bork's study. She could well remember her last encounter with a violent intruder, and she did not relish a repetition of that experience. She peeked through the open door.

_The safe was ajar, and Holmes standing in front of it was removing dossier after dossier, swiftly examining each, and then packing it neatly in A. von Bork's valise. The German lay upon the sofa sleeping stertorously with a strap round his upper arms and another round his legs. "We need not hurry ourselves, Watson. We are safe from interruption. Would you mind touching the bell? There is no one in the house except old Martha, who has played her part to admiration. I got her the situation here when first I took the matter up. Ah, Martha, you will be glad to hear that all is well."_

A floorboard creaked under her foot as she hovered with her hand over the doorknob, and she was discovered. _The pleasant old lady had appeared in the doorway. She curtseyed with a smile to Mr. Holmes, but glanced with some apprehension at the figure upon the sofa._

_"It is all right, Martha. He has not been hurt at all."_

_"I am glad of that, Mr. Holmes. According to his lights he has been a kind master. He wanted me to go with his wife to Germany yesterday, but that would hardly have suited your plans, would it, sir?"_

_"No, indeed, Martha. So long as you were here I was easy in my mind. We waited some time for your signal tonight."_

_"It was the secretary, sir."_

_"I know. His car passed ours."_

_"I thought he would never go. I knew that it would not suit your plans, sir, to find him here."_

_"No, indeed. Well, it only meant that we waited half an hour or so until I saw your lamp go out and knew that the coast was clear. You can report to me tomorrow in London, Martha, at Claridge's Hotel."_

_"Very good, sir."_

_"I suppose you have everything ready to leave."_

_"Yes, sir. He posted seven letters today. I have the addresses as usual."_

_"Very good, Martha. I will look into them tomorrow. Goodnight."_

Martha returned downstairs and locked her trunk at last. Stifling a yawn behind her hand, she stood it upright and began rolling it toward the door, past rooms neatly returned to pristine condition. Soon, she was dozing in the back of one of Von Bork's cars, driven by his chauffeur back to London.

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_These papers," he continued as the old lady vanished, "are not of very great importance, for, of course, the information which they represent has been sent off long ago to the German government. These are the originals which could not safely be got out of the country."_

_"Then they are of no use."_

_"I should not go so far as to say that, Watson. They will at least show our people what is known and what is not. I may say that a good many of these papers have come through me, and I need not add are thoroughly untrustworthy. It would brighten my declining years to see a German cruiser navigating the Solent according to the minefield plans which I have furnished. But you, Watson" — he stopped his work and took his old friend by the shoulders — "I've hardly seen you in the light yet. How have the years used you? You look the same blithe boy as ever. "_

_"I feel twenty years younger, Holmes. I have seldom felt so happy as when I got your wire asking me to meet you at Harwich with the car. But you, Holmes — you have changed very little — save for that horrible goatee."_

_"These are the sacrifices one makes for one's country, Watson," said Holmes, pulling at his little tuft. "Tomorrow. it will be but a dreadful memory. With my hair cut and a few other superficial changes I shall no doubt reappear at Claridge's tomorrow as I was before this American stunt — I beg your pardon, Watson, my well of English seems to be permanently defiled — before this American job came my way."_

_"But you have retired, Holmes. We heard of you as living the life of a hermit among your bees and your books in a small farm upon the South Downs."_

_"Exactly, Watson. Here is the fruit of my leisured ease, the magnum opus of my latter years!" He picked up the volume from the table and read out the whole title, Practical Handbook of Bee Culture, with Some Observations upon the Segregation of the Queen. "Alone I did it. Behold the fruit of pensive nights and laborious days when I watched the little working gangs as once I watched the criminal world of London."_

_"But how did you get to work again?"_

_"Ah, I have often marveled at it myself. The Foreign Minister alone I could have withstood, but when the Premier also deigned to visit my humble roof! The fact is, Watson, that this gentleman upon the sofa was a bit too good for our people. He was in a class by himself. Things were going wrong, and no one could understand why they were going wrong. Agents were suspected or even caught, but there was evidence of some strong and secret central force. It was absolutely necessary to expose it. Strong pressure was brought upon me to look into the matter. It has cost me two years, Watson, but they have not been devoid of excitement. When I say that I started my pilgrimage at Chicago, graduated in an Irish secret society at Buffalo, gave serious trouble to the constabulary at Skibbareen, and so eventually caught the eye of a subordinate agent of A. von Bork, who recommended me as a likely man, you will realize that the matter was complex. Since then I have been honored by his confidence, which has not prevented most of his plans going subtly wrong and five of his best agents being in prison. I watched them, Watson, and I picked them as they ripened. Well, sir, I hope that you are none the worse!"_

_The last remark was addressed to A. von Bork himself, who after much gasping and blinking had lain quietly listening to Holmes's statement. He broke out now into a furious stream of German invective, his face convulsed with passion. Holmes continued his swift investigation of documents while his prisoner cursed and swore._

_"Though unmusical, German is the most expressive of all languages," he observed when A. von Bork had stopped from pure exhaustion. "Hullo! Hullo!" he added as he looked hard at the corner of a tracing before putting it in the box. "This should put another bird in the cage. I had no idea that the paymaster was such a rascal, though I have long had an eye upon him. Mister A. von Bork, you have a great deal to answer for."_

_The prisoner had raised himself with some difficulty upon the sofa and was staring with a strange mixture of amazement and hatred at his captor. I shall get level with you, Altamont," he said, speaking with slow deliberation. "If it takes me all my life I shall get level with you!"_

_"The old sweet song," said Holmes. "How often have I heard it in days gone by. It was a favorite ditty of the late lamented Professor Moriarty. Colonel Sebastian Moran has also been known to warble it. And yet I live and keep bees upon the South Downs."_

_"Curse you, you double traitor!" cried the German, straining against his bonds and glaring murder from his furious eyes._

_"No, no, it is not so bad as that," said Holmes, smiling. "As my speech surely shows you, Mr. Altamont of Chicago had no existence in fact. I used him and he is gone."_

_"Then who are you?"_

_"It is really immaterial who I am, but since the matter seems to interest you, Mr. A. von Bork, I may say that this is not my first acquaintance with the members of your family. I have done a good deal of business in Germany in the past and my name is probably familiar to you."_

_"I would wish to know it," said the Prussian grimly._

_"It was I who brought about the separation between Irene Adler and the late King of Bohemia when your cousin Heinrich was the Imperial Envoy. It was I also who saved from murder, by the Nihilist Klopman, Count A. von und zu Grafenstein, who was your mother's elder brother. It was I —"_

_A. von Bork sat up in amazement. "There is only one man," he cried._

_"Exactly," said Holmes._

_A. von Bork groaned and sank back on the sofa. "And most of that information came through you," he cried. "What is it worth? What have I done? It is my ruin forever!"_

_"It is certainly a little untrustworthy," said Holmes. "It will require some checking and you have little time to check it. Your admiral may find the new guns rather larger than he expects, and the cruisers perhaps a trifle faster."_

_A. von Bork clutched at his own throat in despair._

_"There are a good many other points of default which will, no doubt, come to light in good time. But you have one quality which is very rare in a German, Mr. A. von Bork: you are a sportsman and you will bear me no ill-will when you realize that you, who have outwitted so many other people, have at last been outwitted yourself. After all, you have done your best for your country, and I have done my best for mine, and what could be more natural? Besides," he added, not unkindly, as he laid his hand upon the shoulder of the prostrate man, "it is better than to fall before some more ignoble foe. These papers are now ready. Watson. If you will help me with our prisoner, I think that we may get started for London at once."_

_It was no easy task to move A. von Bork, for he was a strong and a desperate man. Finally, holding either arm, the two friends walked him very slowly down the garden walk which he had trod with such proud confidence when he received the congratulations of the famous diplomat only a few hours before. After a short, final struggle he was hoisted, still bound hand and foot, into the spare seat of the little car. His precious valise was wedged in beside him._

_"I trust that you are as comfortable as circumstances permit," said Holmes when the final arrangements were made. "Should I be guilty of a liberty if I lit a cigar and placed it between your lips?"_

_But all amenities were wasted upon the angry German. "I suppose you realize, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said he, "that if your government bears you out in this treatment it becomes an act of war."_

_"What about your government and all this treatment?" said Holmes, tapping the valise._

_"You are a private individual. You have no warrant for my arrest. The whole proceeding is absolutely illegal and outrageous."_

_"Absolutely," said Holmes._

_"Kidnapping a German subject."_

_"And stealing his private papers."_

_"Well, you realize your position, you and your accomplice here. If I were to shout for help as we pass through the village —"_

_"My dear sir, if you did anything so foolish you would probably enlarge the two limited titles of our village inns by giving us 'The Dangling Prussian' as a signpost. The Englishman is a patient creature, but at present his temper is a little inflamed, and it would be as well not to try him too far. No, Mr. A. von Bork, you will go with us in a quiet, sensible fashion to Scotland Yard, whence you can send for your friend, Baron A. von Herling, and see if even now you may not fill that place which he has reserved for you in the ambassadorial suite. As to you, Watson, you are joining us with your old service, as I understand, so London won't be out of your way. Stand with me here upon the terrace, for it may be the last quiet talk that we shall ever have."_

_The two friends chatted in intimate converse for a few minutes, recalling once again the days of the past, while their prisoner vainly wriggled to undo the bonds that held him. As they turned to the car Holmes pointed back to the moonlit sea and shook a thoughtful head. "There's an east wind coming, Watson."_

_"l think not, Holmes. It is very warm."_

_"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared. Start her up, Watson, for it's time that we were on our way. I have a check for five hundred pounds which should be cashed early, for the drawer is quite capable of stopping it if he can."_

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The clock on the mantel struck ten, making a thin, tinny ringing noise that was lost in the morning sunlight, which filtered through the window curtains. The teacup rattled slightly as Beatrice replaced it on the tray, and the paper rustled when she turned the page. She sat there, ensconced in a sofa in a suite at Claridge's Hotel, slowly making her way through a stack of newspapers, letters, telegrams, and journals. As she finished each one, she carefully folded it on the corner of the small table in front of her, creating a second stack. The tea was a shallow pool at the bottom of her teacup when there was a soft click at the door. Beatrice continued to read as the sounds of movement faded in the front hall and her husband entered.

"Good morning," she greeted him, and without looking up, she passed him a paper from the second stack on the little table. He took it and sat down across from her, having first unbuttoned his morning coat.

"Did you notice anything unusual in London?" he inquired, opening his paper in an echo of her pose.

"It's a sea of khaki out there," she replied. "Mrs Budgeon is filled with indignation that the season at Cowes is cancelled, and that London is swarming with soldiers. She says she will not have any peace under these circumstances, and you know how delicate her nerves are."

"She may be right in more ways than one," assented Holmes.

Beatrice put down her paper, not bothering to fold it up again. "What does the Minister say?" she asked quietly.

Holmes tossed aside his paper and stood up, searching his trouser pockets for his cigarette case. "The Minister," he said with irritation, "is preoccupied with more important things. One lone German spy is but an irritation now."

"But surely, the results of your investigation will help!" exclaimed Beatrice.

"Holmes shrugged and lit his cigarette, waving the match in the air to extinguish the flame. "Ireland's troubles have been quieted by larger events in Europe. It seems that while Adolph von Bork is in custody, the march of progress goes on."

"What does Mycroft say?" Beatrice asked in desperation.

"I found my brother in a frenzy of activity the like of which I have never seen from him. He schemes, he plots, he analyses – in short, he is occupied. In short," he concluded, "There will be a war."

"Surely not?" Beatrice whispered, blood draining from her face.

Holmes smirked bitterly. "Watson cannot believe it either. After he dropped me in London, he returned to his home, saying that he had a date for billiards at his club tomorrow. For some, life goes on."

Just then, a knock sounded at the door, and a hotel page in uniform entered, holding a folded newspaper under his arm. "The latest edition of the paper, ma'am," he said.

Beatrice thanked him and unfolded it as the bellhop left. Staggering slightly from the headline, she collapsed onto the sofa. Holmes snatched the paper away from her.

"What day is it today?" he demanded.

"It is the third of August, 1914," Beatrice said, her voice breaking.

"Britain's ultimatum has expired. We are at war, and Von Bork has won," he said, visibly shaken.

"It certainly seems so, Holmes. It certainly seems so."


	12. Epilogue

Epilogue 

Author's Notes: This is it, at last – the end of our travels with Sherlock and Beatrice. Thanks for sticking around! Roger Casement (look him up) was hanged in August, 1916. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle pleaded for clemency. This chapter should answer all lingering questions about them and their life together. I owe inspiration to Federico Garcia Llorca via Leonard Cohen's song, "Take This Waltz." This chapter is how it all began, and both The Great Hiatus and Curtain Call have been leading back to this. Enjoy.

None of the people present that evening in the ballroom of the Hyde Park Hotel paid much attention to the couple who strolled in at half-past seven. Even the wait staff were slightly dismissive as the pair were seated and served. They were not very remarkable, after all – a little older, certainly, than the majority of the crowd, composed as it was of soldiers home at last from the war and the women who had waited for them. This pair seemed too old to have even been involved in that noble endeavor. The man was tall and gaunt, but he did not have a military bearing. He had instead a slight air of bohemianism, no longer popular among the young mustachioed men in dinner jackets and lithe young women in tunic dresses. His head was almost entirely white, but instead of giving off an impression of senility, it seemed instead to further highlight his piercing grey eyes. The lines on his face were set into a stern and thoughtful expression.

His slightly younger companion was a petite woman with an alert expression; her eyes glanced around the room, alighting on this or that. She was dressed in a pearl-grey satin and chiffon gown, a fur-trimmed brocade wrap draped over the back of her chair. Her black hair, although shot through with silver, was dressed in the latest style – piled high at the back, with waves framing her face. Her features were still soft and round. She looked to be about fifty.

And so, the hotel guests seated at the neighbouring tables, set closely together to make space for a dance-floor in the centre of the room, were oblivious to the strangers in their midst. But had they cared to listen carefully, straining to hear over the music being played by the band on the stage, they might have overheard the conversation of Sherlock Holmes and his secret wife.

"It hasn't all been for naught, Martha," he said, nodding slightly towards the young men and women who passed their table.

"I told you that nearly three years ago when they hanged Casement," Beatrice replied irritably. "Was it not you who first warned the government about the Clan na Gael? Did you not discover the German-Irish plot two years before he even approached the Germans?"

"It did not do me any good then," frowned Holmes, fingering the stem of his wine glass. "It did not do anyone any good. There was still war, at home and abroad. How many friends quarreled over politics? How many families were destroyed, only to have these few survive?" He nodded again towards the young people.

Beatrice did not seem to have an answer. She turned her head away from the dance floor, and gazed into the dim distance, black eyes filled with sorrow.

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They had returned from somewhere – it wasn't important, now, where they had been – to find their son, young Garridan, waiting in the front room. His cheeks were flushed, and he had been pacing. He was nervous. He ran his fingers through his hair, then brought them to his lips, as though requesting a cigarette. He couldn't smoke in the house; Beatrice had forbidden it. He fumbled with something in his pockets. They watched this performance silently, not inviting the words they knew would shock them.

"_I've volunteered," he declared finally, his voice breaking a little, like it had not so many years ago._

_There was a little pause, and the air in the room was heavy. _

"_What?" asked Beatrice, though she had heard. _

"_I've enlisted, Mother," Garridan repeated. "I am going to war. Charles signed up, too. We're going to be shipped off together."_

"_But why?" Beatrice asked. It was a ridiculous question, in the circumstances, but it seemed to buy her time._

_Garridan snorted and turned away from them, stuffing his fists into his trouser pockets. He began speaking at the fireplace mantel. "Why? Because I have to, Mother. Because all of Europe depends on it. Because even though your generation has done it's best to spoil everything, I still think it's worth fighting for."_

"_Spoiled? What have we spoiled?" interrupted Beatrice._

_Garridan whirled around to face her. His lip curled in contempt. "What haven't you spoiled? I look around, at you and your friends, and all I see is how greedy you all are, and how your politics are tied up in pathetic medieval disputes, and how you have no regard for anything that is beautiful or spiritual!"_

_Beatrice shook her head violently. She bit her lip and drew a breath before speaking. "Very well," she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "Let us assume for a moment that what you have said is true. Why, then, dear boy, would you agree to feed yourself to enemy fire?" She looked at him earnestly, and he flushed and looked away._

"_Because there is nothing else for me to do. There'd be a war anyway – if not with the Huns, then with the Irish. Father was there, and look what he earned for his efforts: glorious obscurity in the English countryside!"_

_Beatrice stood up to face her son. Her lips drawn back tightly over her bared teeth, she forcefully whispered, "You have no idea what your father has done for this country. You could not comprehend the scale of his work. What he, your uncle, your cousin, even myself – what we have done to preserve peace…" _

_She felt a firm grip on her shoulder as Holmes stood behind her. He had watched the scene, his arms crossed across his chest, his eyebrows knotted in concern and concentration. His hot breath rolled over her neck and into her ear. "Enough," he whispered. He gave her shoulder a small squeeze and pushed it down gently to encourage her to sit. She sank back into the chair and covered her face with her hands. Garridan, his cheeks flushed with mingled shame and pride, looked expectantly at his father._

"_It was never my desire," Holmes began slowly, painfully, "to have a child of mine go to war." Gods, he felt old. As he spoke, memories flooded his brain – day after day, year after year of people, and travel, and work. When was the last time he had advised anyone on how to live their life? How little he understood of motivations, and of youth. How powerless he was before an adversary that knew no fear, nor logic. How helpless he was before love. He continued, his voice stronger, his back straighter, his shoulders squared. "But I find that before me is not a child, but a man; and as a man, he is bound by the laws of this country. As much as it grieves me, I must believe that his government means well and would not deprive a mother of her son if it did not believe it to be absolutely necessary." He looked down at Beatrice. Her shoulders were shaking and a single great tear rolled down her cheek. Her hands trembled in her lap. Holmes stepped forward and extended his hand to Garridan. "When do you leave?" he asked._

"_Thursday," his son replied, returning the gesture. To Holmes, it was the blackest Thursday in the history of the world._

_It was a matter of weeks. Standing in the garden one day, facing the ocean, Beatrice thought she saw Garridan. He stood by the rose bushes, in full uniform, buttons gleaming in the sun. He made to move, and the reflected sunlight blinded her. She winced, but when she looked up again, he was gone. She did not have to open the telegram to know what news it contained. _

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The music stopped for a few minutes, and couples returned to their dinner tables from the dance floor. A few cast curious glances at the man and woman sitting across from each other at a small table, occasionally exchanging soft words, as is the habit of couples who have grown comfortable in each other's company over time.

The orchestra struck up again, the band leader coming to the front of the stage and signaling the other instruments. A plaintive chord sounded from an accordion, punctuated by a fierce staccato rhythm. It was the tango, which had been all the rage before the war, when it had crossed the Atlantic from the disaffected beer halls of the Argentinean working class to the elegant Europeans eager for new scandal at their parties. On the dance floor, young men awkwardly embraced their partners, and they giggled as they mimicked the angry steps of the dramatic dance.

Few noticed as the older couple stood and arm-in-arm, stepped onto the dance floor. Few saw how his arm tenderly but jealously encircled her waist, or how her head turned at a haughty angle and her mouth set in a determined line. But as the strings soared above the dancers and grew to an almost unbearable pitch, all eyes turned to this pair. They danced as if possessed, their feet leading them in a long-remembered dance of stifled passion, as if all the emotions which had been put away in the corners of their hearts were now expressed in interlocking, skipping feet. They did not dance together -- they danced as one, making each movement like a phrase in an intimate conversation. They never exchanged a glance; one body led another. Not a word was spoken between them. The dizzying whirl of motion echoed the music, until the melody lurched and stopped. The pair stopped, too, their heels ground into the wooden floor. It had all lasted a few moments. From the hanging silence came a smattering of applause. The man gave a curt nod to his wife, and released her from his arms. They walked off the dance floor to their table. There were tears in her eyes; there may have been some in his.

As they sat down, he whispered to her again, "It hasn't all been for naught."

The orchestra played waltzes for the rest of the night.

FIN 

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